A house sits at the side of the road looking bored without any people home. How it yearns to turn around and face the back yard. Or just to look up. The things it has heard about the sky, the edge of which it can just barely glimpse and which it sees reflected in the windows of the houses across the street. The houses across the street never say anything, like the houses next door and, as far as it knows, like every other house in the world. How lonely it is to be a house. How the beds begin to dig into one. How the children course by screaming. How the cherry tree lets her hair brush back and forth against you all night long and says nothing. A house is so patient, so lonely and so patient.