I climbed the mountain, the morning bright
I stopped to breathe, and caught a sight
Filthy ruins, dark and dead
Half yet standing of a homestead
Dust and dirt crumbled down
So still it was, and with no sound.

But as I wandered close to look
I spied a window by a nook
Such a poor, abandoned thing,
Yet as I watched, the sight began to sing.

This was no victim, though hardships seen
Not just a survivor; thriving keen.
It sat as a family lit its world
And endured after their bodies curled.
I peered through it, from within to out
And experienced the furthest thing from a drought.
Window had rested since then in calm and peace
Of the wild, as life began, lived, and ceased.

When I really looked at Window as more than thing
It outlined the landscape in a glorious ring
Forests, hills, flowers, deer, and sun
Came alive through Window, the silent one.