Squared

Beyond the glass squares, silver fog masks the pine branches, whipping in sudden wind. Inside, coming down the stairs, I notice the glass as if for the first time and remember my obsessive coloring of graph paper as a child.  What is it about the small, controlled blocks of color that so mesmerized the child I was and so charms the adult I am? 

Something like a poem or musical composition, lilting and rhythmic, the window sings even when I don't hear it. 

Today, I did.