The house on top of the hill overlooked everything.
It overlooked my house and me and my dog as she squatted and peed,
and it overlooked the street where a few drops of rain fell.
There were mountains which sometimes seemed to stand on clouds,
and the house overlooked them, too.
The house overlooked what passed by,
things passing as they do.
The house overlooked the wind carrying dust.
As I turned my head, the wind blew over me.
The house overlooked trees and the birds in trees and the leaves
and the colors of the leaves.
I moved to another country where the houses rise at first light like farmers
and seem to get a lot of work done.
I look out the window.
How high up I am.
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