Turning Around Barb Reynolds This time I sit in the corner, in the dark leather chair. I see the oak trees that are usually behind me, their leaves turning from green to red to amber. I see the section in the bookcase on gardening and permaculture, when I normally face psychology. A piece of colored glass dangles from a thin white string in the bright, almost glaring, picture window. Iâ€™ve always seen the reflections of the glass, little prism rainbows dancing on the dark plank floor, but I never look at the glass itself. I hear the sounds of the house through my other ear now: the clicking on and then whoosh of the furnace, the hourly refrigerator whatnots, the creakiness of settling. All the sounds that blend into mute when you keep looking in the same direction. A plane passes overhead. A woman rakes her leaves. Cars drive by both ways, too quickly. One neighbor waves to another, the other waves and smiles. Sparrows soar and dip and circle back in pairs, as if they forgot their keys on the counter back home.