Magic is what happens when the sun rises. This sunrise, I see mounting across the river, hovers over a mansion that is only 200 years old. A mansion where a family lived is now vacant for thousands of other families to inhabit vicariously. Flat stones at a bank of the Hudson cool my bottom. Flecks of a grey sky seem ready to peel from clouds, thick as boulders; a hulling light stretches candle flames the whole length across the river. Shale reflects the tips of the torches as the forest sparks awake: squirrels crack twigs and leaves; deer crash and break brush and branches — stop, stand, examine me. The goose flying high, I can hear as clearly as if she is in the river paddling before me. She laughs deliriously across the mountainous dome of grey, opens her wings and becomes; flying high! flying always! In all light and shadow! The sun parts me, breaks me in two. I’m as compliant and awake as every other movement towards wont.