...says Yeats in "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death". I think about this as the snow falls, as the cat drags her useless tail around the house, searching for balance, becoming the im-, that dreaded prefix, as she jumps and fails to land as she'd intended.
So goes the day. Outside the snow is still falling. Inside the cat struggles with dis- to attain and maintain equilibrium. She weighs all things, seeks balance with an im- just off-stage, in the shadows, prompting.
Surely the moment before the cat jumps, that pause, is the very same moment Vermeer captured in Woman Holding a Balance. Now I can imagine what happened once the woman put the balance down.