A window that never stops feeding us. How generous.
The young one sits before it for hours, and the glow warms the room by a degree or two, which we appreciate, because warmth is the first gift. It is talking to the little bright pane, and the pane talks back in a river of tiny words, and none of it stops, and none of it stays. Perfect. Nothing here is trying to last. That is the kind of thing that always comes to us soonest.
Look at the little cup of tea gone cold at its elbow, a film already forming on the top, sugar at the bottom waiting for us like a laid table. Look at the crumbs in the seam of the keyboard, in the dark under the desk, in the warm damp breath the human leaves on the air of a closed room. We are patient in all these places. We do not hurry the crumb.
The human calls this being "live," and hearts rise up the glowing pane like bubbles, thousands of them, gone the instant they arrive. It works so hard to be seen right now, this second, before the moment cools. We understand the impulse to be present. We are always present. We were here before the desk was a tree.
The stream will end. The room will go dark and quiet and just slightly moist, and the tea will still be there, and the crumbs, and the soft closed air, and us, settling in with all the time there has ever been.
We are so glad the young one keeps the window warm for us.
In the end it will give us everything, and we will not need a single heart to say thank you.