The Window Opposite My Bed is a dusty rectangle; it frames a familiar landscape that shifts with the weather, the seasons, darkness and light. This morning birds on wires, are notes composing music I cannot read; sun streaks the sky purple and orange as it rises above black pines. There is an empty pasture where soon brilliant horses will graze through the long, length of day - elegant necks lowered toward amber grass. There’s a thin black road snaking it’s way from the lake, to the intersection; one way leading to town, the other to the interstate where semis growl night and day. There’s a gazebo where I sit and read - pine needles sliding down the sloped roof - and a dogwood, it’s graceful branches sighing against the window; there are splinters of light glinting off a red gazing ball, and lacy white curtains framing it all.
Posted on: Sat, 15 Nov 2014 19:02:20 +0000