A house sprouts up amidst fir, redwoods, oak and a few bohemian misfits like cedar and manzanita. It speaks the language of the forest but it takes a geometric form that is alien to trees. It is autumn, the time of albacore, huckleberries and apples.

“What are you?” say the trees in their various accents.

“I abode,” says the house.

Butterflies, dragonflies, deer, bear, wild turkeys, dove, and quail pass through the meadow that separates the forest from the house. Woodpeckers, ravens, osprey, owls, jays, and a cache of song birds populate a mercurial sky. At once blue, clear and pristine, then obscured by a dense wet fog pulled in by the heat that rises in the valleys.

The last days of farmers markets, the first days of school. Paul Bunyan walks by with his blue ox tethered to a plow. “Ouch!” says the earth. Green grass grows, sucks clear water through straws.

A house created by artists, sculptors, potters, authors, poets and craftsmen high on local weed has no square corners or flat ceilings. A spider’s paradise. An ancient root upended serves as a stair pole. A tower of four stories rises to the west. Cupboards of mahogany and tan oak with meteorological wood grain tell a complicated history. Brunette eyes sunk in knotty pine look out from the roof and walls. Mud baked into sinks and tiles waits in readiness. Tall windows framed with clear redwood that once floated to the mouth of Big River beckon the light.

Don Quixote rides through the meadow.”Estoy buscando amor,” he says.

“Come in. Rest,” says the house.

“Nice digs,” says the caballero andante.

“Thanks,” says the house.

Quixote inquires about the incessant pounding in his ears. The house replies “it’s the ocean.”

“We have no water in La Mancha,” says Quixote not with sadness but with an unexpected wisdom. Great thinkers have dry brains.

“Drink,” says the house and offers a chalice to the knight errant.

Quixote quaffs the offering. “I’ll be on my way,” he says and digs his spurs into Rocinante. Unable to feel, the house observes as Quixote fades into the forest. Sancho Panza follows atop his donkey.

Too much unadulterated junk abjures the house. Fall is the time for a clean out. Temperatures are dropping. Plants are drooping. Superfluity abounds.

The house hears the geese fly south. The days shrink. Insects burrow deep, sing slower. Creatures take up residence inside the walls. The chimney sweeper visits. Firewood is stacked.

The days grow cold, dark, short.

Don Quixote returns. From the meadow he laments: “Peace, peace. There is no peace.”

“Come in. Rest,” says the house.

“I was crazy and now I’m sane,” says Quixote.

“That’s too bad,” says the house. “Sane men are so easy but a crazy man is hard to find.”

“I dare not stop,” says Quixote. “I have miles to go before I sleep. Whose woods are these?”

“Whose woods these are I do not know,” says the house.

“It is dark in these woods,” says Quixote. “I think I’m lost.”

“Come inside where it’s warm. You can sleep in my comfortable bed,” says the house. “You will be better in the morning when you hear the rooster crowin’.”

“I confess,” says Quixote, “there are no knights errant. It was all a dream. I am awake now.” And with that he takes his last breath.

And the house shakes as if there is an earthquake and the walls creak and the beams snap but it holds together like always and waits while time passes.