This morning I sat on the couch and listened to all the sounds encased in the still cabin.

The tap-tap of the walls settling.

The rasp of bamboo knitting needles against soft wool.

The faint snore of the dog beside me.

The electronic bleat of my phone getting a message.

The distant rumble of the highway.

The gurgle of the sump pump.

The rustle of newsprint from downstairs, where Gil is reading the paper in the kitchen.

Then: pots clatter in the sink.

A singing voice swells, Marianne Faithfull, with soulful, stern urgency: “The mystery of love belongs to you.”