I opened my eyes this morning and saw the red planet Mars winking at me through the window. This is the second morning Mars signals me in morse code. I had laid out my clothes to dress in the dark so as not to wake Wally or the dogs. Note: I must oil the hinges on the door again… It’s my secret pleasure to be in the dark of the kitchen to watch the dawn bloom as the stars and planets fade. I am a witness of a cosmic transition. I bring a chair and have church. My little scullery is a triptych of windows. The smallest area of the house has the most square footage of glass. By day it’s where I stand at the sink to wash dishes as I scan the land, sea and sky in an interior conversation with everything. It’s an altar to the ordinary, to its rhythm, flow and seasons, and to the extraordinary scope and aliveness of what is here. Each window is a vignette that informs the next in a panoramic whole. In the darkness, my reflection reveals I am a part of the whole. My dog, Mrs, brushes my leg and stands in front of me waiting for the communal offering. As I bend to pick her up she lifts her short, fat leg to climb into my lap, reminding me of Boone. Her squirmy heft and warmth are like a sleepy toddler. We both are here for the same thing: to behold and be held.