21 Days From My Window
Outside my window this morning the sun shines warm and yellow on everything I see. Long shadows lay across the yards and the houses. Twin black electric pole shadows cut across my neighbor’s grass like railroad tracks and if I pause and listen I can almost imagine the clackety-clack of a shadowy train.
The team flag hanging on the neighbor’s porch casts its shadow across their white garage door. It stretches and snaps, reaching for the corner of the bricks, and then sighs back into its place again and again. The power lines that cross the sky over the two houses facing me are no longer covered with ice. They are barely visible, once again, but their straight lined shadows on the shingles of two roofs are evidence that they are still there.
The shadows of both the American flag and its great tall pole climb up the wall of the house and across the roof. Even the lonely long branch of the Bradford pear tree on the left casts her shadow on the same rooftop.
It’s a typical chilly morning outside my window today. Light and shadows both spill themselves across my view. Nothing strange or unusual to see, and that’s okay, because even normal views hold their own kind of beauty. And it’s good to see that again, through this pane of glass.
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