The wind makes a poet of me.
The rooftops sounded like public parks this evening–a cacophony of children’s laughter, chatting mothers, grownups trying out skipping rope after decades of adulthood–it was as if the park had moved upstairs.
The sky was blue, a blue that felt right. True sky blue, a shade different from the colour that fills polluted skies. If you took a picture of those two skies and put them next to each other, you would see almost the same colour, but somehow, the sky with fresh air would seem just right, a remnant of the sky that our ancestors saw when nothing existed to pollute the heavens, an evolutionary intuition that tells you that this is Sky Blue.
There was a light breeze; the kind I like best–the one that messes with my combed hair and encourages me to pretend I’m in a movie, being noticed by someone who’d one day fall in love with me because the wind disheveled my hair in just the right way. I could see buildings on the horizon that I’d not known could be seen because they were hidden behind a curtain of smog. I saw folks meditating on the roof, and their dog sharing the mat. I saw fathers skip rope with their kids; a young couple playing with their restless toddler. I saw people bringing their chairs out on the balcony and girls talking on their phones. I heard the heights ringing with the sound of play and laughter and adults reliving their childhoods and thought–this is how it should be every evening, lockdown or not. People have lives, yes, and a thousand different distractions, but how nice it would be if everyone took to the roofs in the evening?
I saw the sun set too, the horizon lit as if a candle flame inverted, and I saw the crescent moon climb higher and the North Star, which seemed to know it was the sole object of fascination before night brought its companions along.
And I saw an eagle soar upwards in a circle, slowly growing smaller, flying away from humanity into the sky in an elegant, effortless spiral, before diverting its route on a tangent, flying away until it was far enough to become a blur but not totally vanishing out of sight, and I took that as a cue to leave the night to itself.
This seems like the perfect time to start reading Walden.