Writing on the Windowsill

My back to the sunshine, through cotton and plastic and glass and atmosphere, beating down, reminding me of summer and fall. My feet hang off the stool I’m sitting on. I could be five years old if I wanted, the feeling is just the same. I shift, and listen to the local weather on the radio, and the wind is passing by my hanging feet. If it weren’t for my arching back, I would sit here, whenever I am, and listen and feel the world outside, mere inches away.