Atop the warm shingles
I lever my grit impressed knees
to straddle the roof ridge.
A cool breeze
stirs the skin of my leaden arms.
tickling me from my focus
on the last nail head,
a silver disk,
one of only two
that can be seen,
now that the job is done.
Floating behind the nail and cap shingle
are the scrub trees
at the back of the yard
where the green temperate jungle
tumbles down to the river,
flanked by the highway
and crossed
by an arthritic draw bridge.
The sparkling river
is a jewel,
lit by the whole sky,
framed by the green growth of summer,
and rippled by the wind.
A person should always look around
when they finish shingling.