Down Marston's hill and through the valley beyond, the wetness collected in the grass in glassy, glittered drops that caught the light of the sky and threw it back like the eyes of wild things. The trees stood up at the roadside with their green yearnings revealed, their stiff fingers chafing under a small wind. On the oleander trees, the blossoms hung in crumpled, pink rags, scattered over the curtains of leaves like a last-minute thought. Everything held a strangeness inside it that made it somehow new - even my house, with its black-eyed windows and propped-out door, waiting for its homecoming with a wonder that looked ike mine.