Through the Pane

The glass of the low window was cool under my palms. I stepped onto the sill and paused. Down below on the sidewalk, people walked past without looking up. A bicycle with a bright yellow basket rattled over the paving stones. I watched it roll until it turned the corner. Beside me on the sill rested a dried maple leaf, brittle and curled. I nudged it with the toe of my shoe, angling its stem against the wooden frame so it wouldn't slide away. From here, the world moves fast. But inside, behind the glass, everything stays steady.