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.”