This summer’s twilight is made of smoke. We turn the lights on in the morning to alleviate the dim. Last night was restless and full of coughing. and now the view out the windows is hazed like an ancient oil painting. One window, if I tilt my head just right, holds a classic landscape with a proscenium made of a ripening hay field, trees as curtains on either side. Layers of hills grow progressively soft as they recede. “All the world’s a stage.” There is meaning in the setting as opposed to the action.
