i think he knew then that something had gone wrong , for although he stood on the crest of the hill above the valley , surveying his handiwork and booming out that it was good , when he came to rest in my branches that evening , alone , he tossed and turned , no longer rapt with the stars , and when he chose not to create the next day but instead wandered everywhere , looking closely at his handiwork , his light was muted .