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Dark grey body is on a wire strung across the street. Yellow house- sunshine- faces the house painted the color of summer leaves. A wood cross is on top of an ivory cone. It is thrust into bandaged heavens, and towers behind the stone library slanted on the hill. Windows are smudged charcoal squares, eyes. The glass door, reflecting obese woman with hands choreographed by the weavers dance, opens, closes. Steps are peeling, and as soft as a blue sky. Rainbow cotton is beginning to warm her fingers. Feet pound, and their hollow sound echoes as if trod in an empty house. Dove still sits alone.