Plummet

Sitting on top of my roof, I take in the view.
The neighboring house billows out fluffy smokestacks as the tenant bakes her annual homemade lemon pie.
A kettle of hawks circle nearby, hunting down their next meal.
Chattering squirrels scamper amongst the trees
Fluttering leaves dance with the wind, gracefully descending to the ground.
I nestle my fingers between the shingles while the wind plays with my hair.
Crack.
Slowly, I bring my eyes to the origin of the sound.
Crack.
Pulling away rapidly, I try to wedge myself free from the shingles grasp.
The chittering of squirrels fill the nearby trees.
Crack.
I squirm, I yank. I pull, I push. The roof does not free me.
The wind tosses my body from side to side.
Crack.
The sound of splitting wood echoes across the trees.
Silence fills the air.
Why did the trees stop swaying? Why has the wind gone astray? Yet, why do the smokestacks grow?
Acrid air fills my lungs.
And I plummet inwards with the roof.
My vision becomes hazed.
Breathing is a new challenge.
The only thing I make out,
Are the shadows of the hawks circling above me.
Taking in their new prey.