Moon over Çatalhöyük

You and I know these mudbrick squares. They are cool in summer and warm in winter. We live inside them like cells in a honeycomb. Some are stacked one on top of the other; the last one, with a roof, opens onto a terrace in the sun. Every year, when the time is right, we limewash these walls. We rejuvenate what is white and weathered. The soot, trailing up the corners, is a last show; we celebrate its contours. When we talk, you can see the moon slide over the windowless skylight. It lands in our laps, a numberless dial.