In the room referred to as mine, there is a bed. It is where I sleep now. It is located on the corner of the southwest walls almost level to the double windows of approximately the same length. Staring through the glass, beyond the erratic oscillating trees, is the moon. Inside, on the dresser, the clock has frogged marched past 2am, 3am, and arrived at 4. I am an indoor person now, out of phase with the nearly full moon. Through the high clouds and branches it calls to me. Like the tide, I still feel the pull and want to rise to its summon. I have always enjoyed the night and its transition to mourning. I’m sorry I meant morning. The mystery of the Moon’s changing stages always returning to this preset cycle. Somehow question the solidity of Day’s reality. Most love the sun and its consistency. I too love its warmth on a Spring or Fall day. Mid-summers heat is heavier now and restricts my activities. The howling winds cold breath penetrates the window and reminds me it is not summer. Turning away from the window, I draw the covers up. The bed represents both a safe refuge and unpleasant confinement. I get out of bed. Still feeling captive, I explore the house cautiously, like one might walk the exercise yard. I been thinking of my sister tonight. I wonder if she ever feels trapped.