Bent Light

I followed the stone pathway toward the glasshouse at the garden edge, drawn by the quiet warmth. Up on a cedar work table, a heavy triangular glass prism lay resting beside an empty clay pot. I stopped two paces back, watching how the angled afternoon light gathered inside the sharp clear facets. Stepping forward with slow, cushioned taps, I pressed my plush front paw against its thick bevel. The prism pivoted on the weathered timber with a soft, clean scrape. A bright ribbon of split violet and amber light glided across the potting grit, coming to rest squarely against the mossy rim. I folded my paws underneath my chest to watch.