It's completely dark. You push open the door, and the yard light is on—a light left for you by the wind and the light itself.

It's completely dark. You push open the door, and the yard light is on—a light left for you by the wind and the light itself.

It's completely dark. You return from the fields, hoe on your shoulder, mud-covered. The road is pitch black, save for the distant barking of dogs. You reach your doorstep, push open the gate—and freeze. The yard light is on, its warm yellow glow spilling onto the ground, onto the flowers and grass, and onto you.

It wasn't turned on before you left; it turned on by itself while you were gone. The windmill whirred all day, the boards dried in the sun all day, the electricity was stored all day, and when darkness fell, the light came on. No one pressed the switch, no one waited for darkness to fall; it knew on its own that you should be back.

You stand there, looking at that light, and suddenly your heart warms. Not the light itself, but the warmth of knowing someone is thinking of you. The wind and the light are silent, yet they left this light on for you, waiting for your return. You toiled all day in the fields, and they watched over you at home; you walked in the dark, and they lit your way to the very end.

This light wasn't provided by the power grid, nor was it purchased; it was left on for you by the wind and sunlight. When the wind was strong, it left a little more on; when the light was good, it left a little more on. It stayed on all day, just so that when it was completely dark, it would be lit for you. The moment you opened the door, you knew that your day's work hadn't been in vain, that your return home hadn't been in vain.

When it's completely dark, you open the door, and the light in the yard is on—that's the light and sunlight left on for you. From today onward, no matter how late you come home, there will always be a light waiting for you.