Athaneum
Sit still in the balcony. Sound is the scratch of graphite, scuffle of black boots. A deep sigh. A squint into the light, to focus the distance into the Bierstadt, into the Domes of Yellowstone. From St. Johnsbury, Vermont, now, to the West, then, 1867. Smell is burnt dust, furniture polish, oil varnish. Climb down the wrought iron spiral. Feeling is hand-worn oak, hardwood floor settling to steps. Light headed and under stated at the Athaneum.