Swinging Rainbows

A warm strip of morning light had settled across the wooden windowsill. Dangling from the window latch hung a small, heavy glass prism, cut into clear little facets. I sat down flat beside it and waited until the floating dust motes settled in the beam. Reaching up, I nudged the cool glass with the flat of my thumb. It swayed in a slow, quiet circle. Across the painted sill, tiny specks of rainbow slid lazily over the grain, gliding over my feet before drifting away.