the sound about splits my head open. a rolling chime, so loud that my bones resonate.
upstairs, right now. hand on the railing, stairs two at a time - the rooftop door against my elbow (that'll leave a mark) and then out onto the silvered tarpaper, cool breeze against my face.
a fog has risen from the lake, to the east. cars on the highway by the lakeshore have stopped.
even the gulls have ceased their wheeling, and perch atop lampposts and rooflines, all facing east, all expectant.
sudden wind. the fog is torn into strips and flung skyward.
hanging over the lake, hanging impossibly in the cool morning air, is a mirrored sphere perhaps a mile in diameter.