New Window, New Witness| Charles Clifford Brooks III At my new desk, sitting in the same job, I am finally by a window where April’s brightest breezes allow me to dally against policy and daydream like I am ten again, desperately awaiting the final bell for Summer break with my eyes fixed outside to freedom. Looking out, now thirty, I begin watching a migrant worker meticulously maintaining a motel just down the hill from my new business window. I notice first how every motion seems exact; perfectly, calmly planned. I find Zen in that Spaniard’s swift movements as he scrubs the doors to motel rooms we natives will soon abuse and leave behind like discarded tissue. Yet, tomorrow, he will return, this solitary migrant worker with pride in even the washing of motel room doors. It’s amazing, strangely calming. Through the sunshine, bent and dancing in the leaves of a maple tree, I watch a good man, doing good work, proud to do his small task best. There is a great deal of honor in that.