The figures were to be descending from rooftops shortly. Through the window they were clearer than this dreary Friday morning, posted like taciturn sentinels. They stalked deliberately across the peaks of the clustered apartment buildings. One foot on each side of the apex, they carried on. In their saggy green canvas pants, speckled with chalky paint, they took in the sights from above. The sky cast grayness on everything it touched below, like a light mist on a foggy dawning. A hushed final day for the workweek was in full bloom. Upon first blush the men did not stand apart from the scene despite their odd shuffling positions. Surrounding each building stood tall bare trees of various southern varieties, branches like tentacles reaching out and upward. Behind these limbs they blended beneath their muted colors and solemn faces. The wind was playful, a jest of a zephyr. If one blew tried and true would they hold on strong? What a sight it would, as tragic as it seems, if one were to topple over the side in defeat. They seemed too composed for such a thing. The pace of the day was sedated. Everything moving sluggishly, as if these rooftops were miles long and they may never reach an end. With an ear to the sky the nearby highway plays on but even it sounded tame. They walk atop our lives attempting to be nonintrusive. Here for a day or here to stay, perhaps they’ve been there all along without notice. After they have gone, we’ll dream of them still. Dream of the day they stood so high on heavy feet when the sun could not remain so bright.