A Clear Reflection

A dry sycamore seed had caught in the narrow latch of the low window, tilted awkwardly against the glass. The midday sun threw a sharp, restless shadow across the wooden sill. I stepped over a forgotten steel thimble to reach it, bracing both boots against the brass hinge. With a measured push of my free hand, I nudged the winged seed free. It glided down into the yard below. Beside the clean pane, a discarded glass prism cast a thin band of amber onto the painted frame. Stillness, restored.