I don't usually take pictures of windows, but this one glowed while the rest of the dwelling seemed invisible. The light went out just after I took the picture, and the scene became less surreal, no longer melancholy.
When taking my early morning walk, I like to be out and back before the village wakes up. The air is fresh and the breezes are sharp, cold and slightly herbal. Most of the windows are still dark, but once I found myself surprised when I glanced at a lit window and saw an elderly woman sitting and reading at her kitchen table. She was absorbed in her book and did not see me slowly pass in the darkness. The lamp on her table illuminated her face, part of the book, and one hand as if she were a painted portrait instead of a live being.
As I walk past sleeping houses, some of them seem to be leaning, propped up by their own night shadows. Little by little the light increases and birds wake up and start to sing, hesitant at first. I turn to walk home. I am back inside my house before the newspapers are delivered, before the dog walking men stumble down the streets, pulled by the leashes, long before car doors begin to slam, and engines turn over, before the weird pools of darkness are erased by morning.