I start awake with the prickling knowledge that someone is in the room.
Every house has its secrets. I am about to learn one.
My eyes fly open. A luminescence hovers mid-air at the foot of the bed.
We'd been in the house nine months. My bedroom faces west, so I was accustomed to wake to darkness.
But now a shaft of red-gold, ancestral light slants in, spans the room, and illumines the windows of the west.
Minneapolis is a four-square city, its good Midwestern street-grid laid out cardinally. As the Sun rises due east at the equinoxes in his annual journey along the horizon, his light shines in through the east window, streams in a thick, tangible column down the hall, and into my bedroom on the west.
Like something out of New Grange.