Ikon

The quantity threatened to dwindle. Against the windowpane, the boy leaned, the urgency of the day dispelled by dusk. Should he strike to hurry it, or strike only a pose, an attitude, of longing moodiness? The question went unanswered, his body settling into the contours of what he saw, the water drop so insignificant that his attention could barely graze on it. Could it be gutted, and yet preserved, he would farm it and the others like it (there being so many) for riches. It moved, then caught, its shape sustained by friction, then moved again, nearly becoming a runnel, nourished by the possibility of meeting the others. In its transparency, adhering to transparency, he reconciled the world to glass; it became, in that moment, an ikon of what it could be to see. Within it, moats gathered, microbes jigged. When he closed his eye and drew back his focus, he could see them there against the lid. Opening it again, they remained. Beyond, without haste or pause, the droplet drew its downward path, absorbing his gaze without scheme.

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