The houses sit, like new presents, neat and clean. Their quietness promises the falling sunset hues of vows, packaged memories, fresh beginnings...

I am a face peering out. The birdsong reflecting the orange, red of the sky, more distant now. The squeak of a chair and hum of computer suggest a flurry of tomorrow like a flock of wings waiting to take flight.

Noone can see me.

Evening beckons to a slower pace, a last check that all is ready for the light to find it in its rightful place. The minutes quicken, with the pulse of my heart.

Here, inside my box, like a cardboard doll, I wonder at my sometimes reddening cheeks, swollen tongue, embarrassed of its inarticulate jibes, stumbling footfalls, unsatisfactory mirror reflections...ill prepared moments of inadequacy. I replace them - with a sure, light step - a foxtrot of delights, a waltz of witicisms and a thought that when I awake from my toy slumber, and cut the invisible strings of yesterday - I will dance out of the very square playhouse and sing like the lark of it all.