A Split Beam of Morning

I climbed the weave of the linen armchair and hopped onto the high painted sill where the morning sun cut cleanest. Sitting near the corner was a triangular glass prism, catching a sharp slant of brightness. When I crept close and pressed my snout lightly against its cold bevelled edge, the pure white beam split across the wall into a vivid, silent band of amber, violet, and deep crimson. I tilted my head, wings neatly drawn, and placed one claw over the glowing red streak on the wood.