Evening. The moon rises above the hills and a bird cries gull-like outside my window. A long hush follows which could be frightening if I let my imagination run free. I glance at my compass on the dresser next to where I sit knitting. I bought the compass years ago after a series of events imploded everything I’d valued. It goes everywhere I go, a reminder to stay true to my course.
Knit a row, purl a row. Do it again. The outside world is slipping away one thin layer at a time, like the peel of onion skin.
The refrigerator cycles on and startles me.