Dappled autumn sunlight winks at me through multicolored leaves. Opaque, greenish water twinkles at the foot of rolling painted hills. Two regal swans float aimlessly near the lake shore. My comfortable place is a spot where I can relax and think, spending time alone. But it is so much more than that. I am nestled in a kind of treehouse – a living room window seat with a bird’s-eye view of my backyard, looking out high above the action below me.  I can watch the world change before my eyes, from sleepy sunrises to the angled rays of sunset. This seat is better than any movie theater seat. I am surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, with cushions that are bursting at the seams, furry blankets, tattered books, a laptop, and a variety of tangled cords. I can see the world, but nobody sees me.

Some mornings I wake early and sneak to this perch, just so that I can watch the day begin. I sit above the clouds that hover like fluffy marshmallows above the lake, trapped inside the walls of hills that rise around the far side of the lake. I wait for the sun to rise and slowly toast them away, turning the puffs into wispy threads, which rise higher in the sky before disappearing entirely. That shiny circle of lake water is visible again. Birds, mammals and people come and go. Through the windows I can hear the cars passing on the road below, racing by fast and blind to what they are missing. Groups of bikers glide far below me, shouting directions at each other and also missing what is happening. My dog patrols the backyard on a well-worn trail he has dug. He is oblivious to my oversight. If he knew he would be at the front door whining to come in and lounge next to me. Instead he barks at anything that moves.

At dusk, when my family arrives back at home and the house turns to chaos, I stay in my spot, watching the day sky dissolve into different colors -- from blue to purple to magenta and then back to blue and then indigo black. The clouds performed another show at dusk, deflating like balloons, expanding out in streaks across the sky before vanishing against the night sky.

Nobody else in the house shows any interest to this spot in the same way as me. My parents are too busy. My sisters prefer the hustle and bustle of the main rooms. It is only me, running to the window seat each morning, positioning myself among the cushions and covers. As my family members walk by in the hall, I snuggle up in my corner, hidden from view by the random rows of chairs, sofas, ottomans and lamps. But I can see them. I know what they are doing, where they are going, what they are serving for dinner. Little bits of their conversation break off and float over to me. “Is the washer open…”? “…dress…dance tonight,” When I am ready to join in, I could tear myself away. But mostly I stay put, secretly a little afraid someone else will wake up and claim this magic spot.

As the sun slowly moves across the sky, creating shadows that fall on the side of the house, I sit home alone. The multi-colored pillows surround me like candy mix in a bowl. I think about the pillows. My favorites are gigantic and crimson colored. Similar to the leaves that waltz down to the ground to the rhythm of autumn. I am leaning against them now, drowsily wondering how long it will take to drift off to sleep with this forgotten book on my chest. It is peaceful now. It is not a good time to read. The sun warms me, even though my bare feet are dangling over the side, outside of the blanket. I need to sleep. I am lazily closing my eyes, taking one last, lingering glance at the branches brushing against my window.

My eyes suddenly shoot open. A massive creature is only a few feet away from me. I am paralyzed. My heart is pounding. I forget that this monster cannot get to me through the glass. I catch a breath and allow my eyes to move down; following his gaze as he solemnly considers which helpless yard creature he will select from the backyard menu. I stare out at him again. A broad red-tailed hawk. He is so near, I can see his beady eyeballs shifting, looking out over the yard. His eyes stop. Glancing down again I see the tragedy that is about to happen. A rusty squirrel is stuffing herself happily on bird seeds from our feeder, feasting before winter. From the corner of my eye I see an enormous commotion and flapping wings, followed by an arrow of motion. A wave of nauseating dizziness washes over me. Now the brown, striped predator is planted firmly on the ground, his giant wings slowly flapping to keep his balance as he rips through the flesh of an innocent animal. I shudder. This is cold and cruel. His head turns sharply. He is surveying the landscape to ensure no other beast feasts on his victory. I want to look away; but I cannot. I am fascinated by this brute, with his long talons and curved, knifey beak.  I stare on and feel like hours pass as the hawk finishes his meal and eventually lifts back into the air, circles proudly around the animal debris, then the motionless lake and then over the hills, disappearing from my movie screen.

A midday nap is out of the question. I lift the abandoned book and force myself to look away from the show that will continue outside, whether I am watching or not.