Three young village girls come to my window again. This is the third time. They squeeze together and look down into this stone room. Two of them flee. The one in the yellow sweater locks her eyes into mine. She insists. Perhaps she is nine years old. We look at each other for long seconds. She wants to exchange the seed gaze, deliver to each other our longing to be born in truth. Her companions return to tear her away. My head clears. The birds sing deliriously. The calm blue sky seals the top of the exterior wall neatly with nothing to be desired. If she comes to look at me again maybe I will have the courage to greet her as she greeted me.