I’ve become familiar with the western view through the large panes of the bedroom window. Whoever installed these windows had means to do so. They are probably not original, but there is a waviness to them, which is how we know they are still very old. The waves, and the drafts.

I have never been one to rest before dark, but I’ve seen countless dusks through this window in the last two years. The walnut covered hill blocks the sunsets, and I’m left contemplating the affected atmosphere. Pink hazes. Blue green glows. There was a stretch of nights in June when the moon hovered in the treeline across the swamp. I stood and gazed at the elongated cross that formed, moonlight stretching down to graze the pond, linking earth and sky.