From a windowsill in Prague the world is small — it’s a single courtyard from medieval times, waiting patiently for us to come and play. It’s a quilt of courtyards — of cobblestone courtyards — extending toward the distant horizon line.
The horizon line is soft, smudged by an apricot moon — she lingers still as the sun joins her. She lingers into the stark white of midday. She is quite self-conscious.
From the edge of my window sill in Prague, the world is on edge. I lean my head back to meet the windowpane that supports my spine. I shift my legs, trying to alleviate the pain in my bones against the hard wood sill. I hold my knees to my chest. Then I fix my gaze on the city scape, tying to identify the furthest point in my view: a few steeples poke through the crow of clouds. They are very small and very far away.