Pots of poinsettia on the front porch, mint stragglers by the steps. A sky like the rim of a cup edged with a line of pines. And we, looking up from the well where days swirled one into the other, waited for the first flint of light from a star or the points of a crescent to steer by. Despite the fixedness of our position, time felt like a pitcher we would never finish pouring. It glowed like stained glass in morning light, like an augur at night.