There is a is tall narrow house down the road from my home. It is bright yellow and 150 years old. There are reflections on four of its windows that change with different times of the day and season. The images are ephemeral and, in the moment. They are caught in between in the minutes when sun and window align, and then disappears. Those windows are now so old that the glass has rippled downwards like water falling in slow motion. They distort the reflections so that they become abstractions. The frames locate me for that moment in time, I am drifting somewhere before windows or lost. There is mystery. The experience is of the transient beauty that minute by minute, transforms into a new image, sometimes vibrant, sometimes serene, sometimes both.