Being There

The light pierces from high-up transoms, crescendoing to a tilted whirl of glittering abeyance, cut soft through flutters of airy cloth. Low stakes. Terror in the brushy autumn colors. Lint free napkins tri-folded and arranged at obtuse angles on live-edge oak tables. The atmospheric skein is clean, humble, and muffled. A scuffling rumble, like an engine that used to purr but now just neighs and whines showing the scars of its rambunctious youth that only now seem…