Ours is an old house, one that settles on a basalt foundation. Summer has broken, clouds gray once again, thick with mountain snow and piling. First, the dog goes out back. I close the chickens in, the nightly fight for the best spots on the roost, small clucking and vicious beaks. A pass through the house, close the kids’ doors, shut off reading lights left on once again. Set the coffee-maker on automatic, ready for morning. All closing is just preparation for opening. There’s nothing final in a locked door, in a closed window. I stand on the front porch, smoke a cigarette, and read something. I have to stand in the light to see. Something moves in the yard, a shadow against the grass. One of the cats, or a skunk. A man rides his bike down the middle of the street, The man in the house on the corner shouts obscenities at someone who left months ago. These small lives and large, a couple in a hurry to somewhere else, refusing night. If this is the heart of the city, the ventricles have grown decrepit, walls weak against all that moves against them. Inside once more, I let the dog in, scratch her head before sleep. The doors locked, the house breathes its last, holds it. I can’t bring the light back.