I want to be alone in my perfect home, a place that has everything I need. It has access to beautiful nature, solitude, it has electricity to charge my devices, it has a shower, and Internet access, it has food and a kitchen to keep and prepare the food, there is a desk and all my books and papers, shelves to put them on, there is a comfortable bed and a couch, there are pleasant walks I can go on from my front door, I can also watch movies there, and make popcorn, and drink wine, and eat chocolate. There is ice for drinks when it's hot. I will watch the birds, and keep tabs on how the plants grow. I will read and write there. I want this all for myself, with my time to myself, and no demands upon it. I reserve this little heaven like a fine hotel room to be one of life's stations. Call it vacation what I seek as work. Once I had all that, and I know that it is not all.
But not to be seen, not to be looked at is such a fine privilege. To be watched even with eyes of love is crowded.
Birds fly low across the clearing: blue bunting, scarlet tanager, and other birds too quick to be recognized, or too plain. One doesn't want to be plain, but one doesn't want to be watched either. And so closeted or flying fast past, I take pleasure too in not being seen.
Yet as birdwatchers, my admirers, I imagine they try to lay sights on me. While I retreat to my haven with the blue bunting, the scarlet tanager, and the chestnut sided warbler, but no electricity and in close quarters with a guy who keeps his eye on me.