Beauty and burn out

Night Sky

Up  high on the terrace of our house in Monflanquin,  I watch  magnificent sunsets and sky.  "Good night, Monflanquin," I whisper.  No one  can hear or see me.  This  little ritual at the end of the day brings me comfort. In the morning, I open the  creaky old shutters of the bedroom to a charming village scene.  The day begins, and an inexplicable joy sets in.  At home here in Beaverton,  days begin and end with other words, other practices, but no breathtaking views. Yes, I am missing my little morsel of France, my refuge.
At the end of another week of confinement, I feel weary. No need to explain. You all understand. But I have thought up a term for it "confinement burn out".  Perhaps someone already coined it  No matter.  It suits.