Today they’re cracked. Two days ago they were wide open, less so as the clouds moved in. I’m talking about the windows, barometers of weather and humidity, of light and darkness.

This morning they usher in cool breezes and the sound of rain. It splashes in the garden, pings in the birdbath, makes music of an ordinary Wednesday morning.

I’ve lived in places where windows were dingy and recalcitrant, barely budging in their sashes. I’ve worked in places where windows were sealed in place, never to be opened.

Once the windows in this house balked and squeaked. But for many years they’ve been compliant creatures, and I’m so glad they are. Because today, I can open them just enough to hear the rain.