<i>Mortal Limit by Robert Penn Warren I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming. It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming Of dream spectral light above the last purity of snow-snags. There-west-were the Tetons. Snow peaks would soon be In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height Hands now the black spec? Beyond what range will gold eyes see New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light? Or, having tasted that atmosphere’s thinness, does it Hang motionless in dying vision before It knows it will accept the mortal limit, And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore The breath of earth? Of rock? Of rot? Of other such Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?</i> This is an endeavour in learning about architecture. The project, a competition on Charles Bulfinch’s Old Jail Site in Old Town Alexandria, to make Townhouses, serves as a vehicle towards that end. / Master of Architecture