Today

marked eleven months of the war

that twelve months ago, I would not have imagined.

I am sitting on the fifteenth floor of a corporate high-rise,

The kind with wooden panels, soft lights, high-speed elevators and bergamot-smelling hand cream in a gender-neutral bathroom,

And listening to a story of hunting a deer

I am looking out of a wall-sized window on the imperfect symmetry of glass, metal, concrete and smoke

I am thinking that it used to be a forest.