Sitting in the loft

Ghosts are billowing through the field: rain on wind. I’m sitting on the cushion keeping an eye on myself. The lights are off so the dim Sunday evening light is the same inside as out — grey as a classic movie you might watch on a day like this. Trees sway by the side of the lane like horses hoping to break their reins. Wind rakes the roof: persistent, everywhere, determined to bring you back to this inescapably wet night. Thoughts billow, blow and bluster. Before electric lighting, this is how we lived. Wait. What about candles? The skylights glow ambiguously. Night is merging with treetops imperceptibly as both turn navy, then black. My feet have gone numb.

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