The rooftop is a taut instrument, its dark tiles stretched like strings, each ridge holding a note, waiting to sound.
Above, dancers in feathered costumes leap into a drama no one has written, yet everyone knows by heart.
Their wings sketch fleeting brushstrokes on a blue canvas, a performance for an audience without tickets.
I watch from below, alone, catching a fragment of poetry — a ballet without music, a concert without words.
Then, with a few quick beats of wings, the stage is empty.
And I am left lighter, surprised by the ordinary once again, longing to try my own wings in applause.