I'm staring out of my kitchen window at my neighbors house across the street.
Their windows like mirrors against the gray siding, reflecting gray skies and I see transparent trees warped and bloated.
Today I can see inside: no one is home, or the lights are just off, and a giant crucifix is afixed to the gray in this light wall. Someone's bedroom? Jesus must be half my height.
Outside, one level down, the porch light that shines a lightning white streak across my pillow at night has closed it's eyes.
One house over, an empty terracotta pot, brightly painted with enthusiasm, sits to the side on the middle concrete step. It sports some shades of green, but none that match the moss of the stairs. Nor is there chromatic reference to the yellow of the house.
Further down, midway down the first flight of stairs, a crow with wide legged stance flicks a leaf belly up. Other crows spot the trees that lace the visual field that hangs over the street.
I refill my mug with warm water from the once hot kettle and settle back to my desk.