When is a glass of water only a glass of water? And nothing more. No attachments to anything. Some questions, after all, have no answers, and this might be one of them.

Tight bands of umber, coral, and grey filter through rafters of the unfinished room. Lights in the valley begin to sprinkle on. It's all about scale. The dance — unnoticed, undisturbed — carries its motion of faces into wood and glass and paint. Call it family. All the tools of the heart and hand, of the eye and ear are in place.

We nail together the days for shelter against the cold. We believe in a measure for pain. On a scale of 0-10, a doctor says, where is your pain? How does it feel? At the end, a number is nothing more than number.

So, when is a glass only a glass, and water, only water? When is my life only my life? I set down the glass and pour it full. A couple of drops splashing against the table as I pick it up, then take a long drink.

There's a soft wind in the dust of trees. And hands at work — building, building. Night is coming on with its slender threads of knowing.