Claiming the sill

Morning sun warmed the glass. I marched across the shelf post and dropped onto the broad white sill. In my way sat a terracotta saucer, thick and crusted with dried soil. I planted both feet. Shoved forward with my chest. The clay dragged across the paint with a dry, grinding screech, halting an inch from the brink. It yields. Now the glass is clear. Outside, the street stretches wide and distant below.