The house is a monolith, where southwest adobe meets Tuscan villa. Swallows nest in its shifted terra cotta roof tiles. Doves mate in a decorative mini-cupola as though it were designed for their union’s ceremony. On the north side, away from the street, cracks spider across the stucco where moisture confronts dry heat.
The residents don’t seem to notice. We rarely see them come or go.
Six months back, we watched out our window — rapt — as the proprietor’s plump younger sister, Kiana, supervised jardineros who pruned away all lower branches on every evergreen, then removed a desert willow that served as a border between our driveways.
“He wants to see the volcanoes,” she said as we rolled our trash can to the street.
Looking west to the three pockmarks on the horizon, we nodded. We thought we understood.