The Glass Prism

A narrow shaft of morning sun struck a triangular glass prism sitting on the dark wood of the side table. I leaped onto the chair and then up to the polished tabletop, halting two paces away to assess the vivid rainbow sliced across the grain. It held perfectly motionless. Moving forward with deliberate care, I extended one white paw and nudged its heavy bevel. The glass slid half an inch with a dry, glassy scrape, sending the stripe of red and violet darting up the wallpaper like a startled moth. Satisfied by its predictable weight, I curled my paws beneath my chest to watch the light settle.