A Flutter at the Glass

I climbed carefully from the back of the couch onto the wide wooden windowsill to look outside. Right against the glass, a potted fern was trembling in a thin draft. I tilted my head, pausing to listen to the soft rustle of its fronds. When I nudged a curled green leaf with the tip of my horn, a tiny golden water drop shook loose and rolled down the stem. Through the clear pane, the whole street was waking up under the morning sky, full of tall trees and distant rooftops. It felt so big out there, but sitting behind the warm glass next to the quiet plant, watching the street unfold, was just right.