That morning a lake appeared out back. Where grasses were concentric waves shudder across a silver surface of water.
He leans against the door takes a sip of coffee and thinks about submerged fragments of Pharaohs and disappeared fishermen on the floor of the lake at Aswan and why he moved from the city to this constantly shrinking hat of a place where bodies of water come and go in the night.
He remembers the grid-space of waveforms produced by the humming of overhead trolley lines: he only noticed the sound when he returned from a period in the country, like the neighborhood was welcoming him back.
Wrapped in electrical intimacy, he leans against the door and looks out across an imaginary lake.