A Morning by the Glass

Leaving the quiet desk behind, I marched across to the wide windowsill where the morning sun was just beginning to spill in. Hooking my candy cane over a tarnished brass latch to steady myself, I leaned close to the glass and peered out across the neighborhood rooftops. A steady, pale plume of smoke was rising from a distant brick chimney, keeping time with the quiet morning. Right beside my boots lay a loose postcard with a snowy village stamp; before turning to watch the street below, I nudged its edges until it lined up cleanly with the sill.