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Pane

Pane No creature feels August’s restlessness more I thought, than a housefly. Across the room it had taken a wrong turn from the syrupy sunshine outside. I watched it butt its head against the glass, watched it beat against the window’s smooth glass chest, wring its hands in bewilderment, try again, fall to the sill, stunned, get up and do it again. Unable to watch its stubborn struggle anymore, I got a plastic cup, gently caught the little black firework before it fizzed itself out, watched it sink up into the sky like a coin in a public fountain. Perhaps God will guide me a few inches to the left too, I thought. When it was gone, I looked up through the branches and glimpsed blue. Anna Gilmore Heezen Young Poets on the Underground

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