Some kid threw a rock through our window.
We live on the fifth floor, about tree-top high.
Ever since then there’s been a hole in the shape of an eastern star
In the very center of the outer pane.
The rock itself remains in the flowerpot; it’s quartz with some granite.
Lots of things have shown up between that hole and the inner pane: gnats; positive ions; the upper registers of street noise; some birds of prey;
And tonite, heard above the click of the ceiling fan, the green tap of a katydid.