he sat at the window, looking.

He sat at the window. Looking.
Hands turned in, fingers sandwiched between leg and bench,
a puddle of breath on the pane.
"He is more immobile than a child ought to be",
Thought his slack faced mother from the doorway.
But it was of little importance.
Her doughy gaze turned to aching stove.
So he sat there,
Looking.
free from torment by parental affection or interest
Small and still.
Things change if you look closer.
If you change things look closer.
Shifting his weight, he let his fingers revive with blood like ants through his palms.