Crumbling Roofs

A tin rain ticks between the scrabble of pigeon claws. Time drips off a shingled edge. In moments you can land years behind as just the shrunken rolling head of a whole decade. Eyes open, you watch, a bushel of owls hooting as aftershocks shake a crumbling roof - one you are no longer under. Listening as if on a phone, sliding into the woe-be-gone, you are now, back in the backyard of nowhere. Pigeon wings clatter, a rain softens, to a slow measured splattering.