Gregarious and rueful,
The rooftops were filled
With the sound of
Broken bottles.

I stood on the cold metal,
Hoping the steps would
Hold, listening to the wind
As it whistled.

Where were the birds?
Migration or a pale moon,
I saw something try to fly,
Arms outstretched.

The rooftop was silent,
Even with the mouths
Opening and closing,
Drunken squalls.

The traffic grew louder,
Forms rushed past,
And a bird cawed
Like crippled glass.