I went away on a long trip and returned to a cold dark place. Time passed slowly in that place, so that the clouds never shifted, the sky never changed.
Then our books began to migrate into boxes. I was in a collaborative group art show in a library that was once a Protestant church, with windows dedicated to dead wives. More books were boxed, along with baubles, coats, notes, masks, two books of useles US stamps, owls from Cairo and London and Barcelona and Tangier and Marrakesh.
The sun stopped hurrying to its bed, foxes no longer died on the bleak verge, every bird began to look for its mate.
Finally last week we moved to a little medieval city just across the bay. (It's called The City of Strangers. How apt.) The books, the masks, the owls came, but I left behind misery and a few regrets. They roost in the eaves of the old house, peeping blearily at misty mountains, wondering where I've gone. Oh, but my sorrow follows me like a dog.