Fourth Floor
I reason with the crown of the tree. Surely from this fourth floor window, we are equals now. I calculate the trajectory, whether it would catch me if I threw myself at it. I comb for clues from the uneasy rocking of the branches, the slow swimming of its fingers stirring the air. There must be something in the moth flutterings of the mylar balloon trapped between the twigs; a pincered ghost, failing to tear itself away even with the wind as an ally. You can’t blame the Poplar for wanting to hoard it, the only fruit it has ever held onto or is capable of bearing.