Deskscape

At four o'clock most winter afternoons my glass-topped desk hands me the world beyond on its own immaculate platter. The skyscape and the barren trees, the potted plants along the sill, and either the sun breaks through the clouds or it doesn't, either a breeze moves through the trees or everything is still.

No matter what, the page I'm writing steeps itself in altitudes and attitudes just slightly beyond my control.