The tower rises upward, all but consumes vision. A vertical column of sun-warmed stones, earth’s worn bones, carefully snugged into place one atop another. Old beyond reckoning. Smoothed and shaped by time and wind and weather. Hummocks of turf girdle the tower’s base – grass and weeds and wildflowers woven together in dense matts. On the tower’s North side, a burden of ivy, with stems as thick as a man’s wrist. Vining tendrils curl and clamber, sink fine root hairs into cracks and fissures. Wind moves through the ivy, stirs glossy leaves; they rub their edges together in whispers.

An arched window marks the tower’s East side – single dark, unblinking eye, just beyond the ivy’s reach. On the window’s stone sill rests a shallow bowl. It gleams white against the interior’s dark throat. So near the edge. So high up. A careless breath or nudge could send it tumbling. Out and down. Dashed against the tower’s defenses. Rain of porcelain shards. All splinters and dust…

But no. The bowl rests, unmoving, on its ledge of stone. Ivy stirs and stretches. And the tower lifts itself and yawns against the expansive blue sky.