Ram Dass

           Therewerefinesunsetseveninthesquare,sometimes.Onecouldonlyseepartsofthem,however,betweenthechimneysandovertheroofs.Fromthekitchenwindowsonecouldnotseethematall,andcouldonlyguessthattheyweregoingonbecausethebrickslookedwarmandtheairrosyoryellowforawhile,orperhapsonesawablazingglowstrikeaparticularpaneofglasssomewhere.Therewas,however,oneplacefromwhichonecouldseeallthesplendorofthem:thepilesofredorgoldcloudsinthewest;orthepurpleonesedgedwithdazzlingbrightness;orthelittlefleecy,floatingones,tingedwithrose-colorandlookinglikeflightsofpinkdovesscurryingacrosstheblueinagreathurryiftherewasawind.Theplacewhereonecouldseeallthis,andseematthesametimetobreatheapurerair,was,ofcourse,theatticwindow.Whenthesquaresuddenlyseemedtobegintoglowinanenchantedwayandlookwonderfulinspiteofitssootytreesandrailings,Saraknewsomethingwasgoingoninthesky;andwhenitwasatallpossibletoleavethekitchenwithoutbeingmissedorcalledback,sheinvariablystoleawayandcreptuptheflightsofstairs,and,climbingontheoldtable,gotherheadandbodyasfaroutofthewindowaspossible.Whenshehadaccomplishedthis,shealwaysdrewalongbreathandlookedallroundher.Itusedtoseemasifshehadalltheskyandtheworldtoherself.Nooneelseeverlookedoutoftheotherattics.