Florence (-61 Days-)

The terra cotta rooftops are cold to the touch of our bare feet
while we walk along their shingled surfaces
when no one else is watching, or telling us to climb down before we fall
we wait until the glowing, red sphere that is the sun, sets into the fold
of the valleys far off, and when the shadows begin to cradle the busy city
lulling it to sleep with the songs of ancient Italy
and it is then that the moon gives a pale, haunting light to our footsteps, and creating
pools of silver light that we dance in as quietly as we can
only letting our voices rise when the chime of the city bell is loud enough to drown them
and when the shouts and cries of celebration in a distant home
can be heard throughout the streets, coursing through the allies
and mingling with the light and tempered breeze that carries their sound
drizzling it along the walls of ancient cathedrals, and flooding
the cobblestone paths around the park
and we are dying to sing aloud, but refrain and walk a winding trail along the rooftops
where one is nearly touching the other
their rusty colored shingles close to overlapping, and yet
leaving space enough for one to look searchingly through, and see the life in between the cracks
watch the elderly women hang daily laundry and cloths from wire strands
watch the arms of men go back and forth as they move the bows of their fiddles
here the vigor in their voices
watch the children play with rocks and paper dolls in the allies, lit by the amber lights
which pour forth from the square windows of their homes
watch the scraggy dogs search desperately through the garbage cans, and the few
black and brown cats scurry from street to street
like you and I from rooftop to rooftop
before the sun awakes again, and the morning echoes its yesterday.