It rises from the fingers of the captain's hand, pauses for a moment as the forces of gravity and momentum compete, and finally down - to land in the same confident grip.
Again, a spinning throw. It ascends through the air like the eternal dance of a world, rotating. Spins in isolation. Spins through the years.
The window passes by. Every view is different, and the hand that has thrown it is steady and certain. Sure of its path, the guiding motion, and the place where each arc will lead it to fall.
Every rotation passes, like the spinning of years. Always different; always clear.