The long winded porch would catch each day’s last sweeping light. As we would sit by candle light, drinking bag wine, quietness always took hold. The lake would speak softly, effortlessly groping the shore’s slippery stone. Through this shore’s tree line, we watched for months, the movement of our sun’s departure over yonder mountains. Always to the right, always north, always the coming of winter’s shortage.

Santanoni. A place I was fortunate enough to call home.