Village Rooftops

The room I stand in is bare, the cold floor made of a composite stone and concrete. The walls are cream colored and a very dim light shines, just barely, from the hallway behind me.
There is an open window in front of me, my hands are touching the cool white painted wooden sill. The single glass pane of the window is attached to the house at one of the vertical edges, opening to the outside like a fragile door. Outside the sky is mostly dark but for the touch of cobalt blue on the horizon, that thin line which shatters the darkness. The beaming moon above is enough to light the night and I can see the thick cluster of old houses with terracotta rooftops that are clustered over the rolling valley. There are a few birds in the air, already chirping before daybreak.

The vision out the window is one snapped up by every tourist that comes to this town.  3, 4, or 5 story houses all squeezed in together, the terracotta rooftop tiles looking like an undulating ocean over the wavy hillsides.
The walls of the buildings below me are old, some have bits of grass and weeds growing from the cracks in their sides and small clumps of dirt that have settled in the rooftop gutters have sprouted little tufts of greenery. 
On the very edge of the massive grouping is a more imposing church, its bright white-washed walls stand in stark contrast to the yellows, pale browns and beige of the terracotta houses, which in spite of their age still stand strong, proudly serving the life which carries on within them.

Chords of laundry lines connect neighbor to neighbor. They sit now empty, vibrating softly in the early morning air.
Planter boxes full of blooming red flowers hang off many narrow balconies or windowsills, there are dozens of satellite dishes protruding from rooftops or attached to wrought iron railings by the windows.
The houses are so close together I cannot see any roads or alleyways on the streets below, just visible are the chimneys and rooftops and the highest few floors of the buildings with their ample but small windows.
The structures are anything but uniform, though they roughly share the same dimensions, each has its own aesthetic, its own simple uniqueness which differentiates it from the ones beside it.  Their only common trait is the warm-hued terracotta roof, the sense of an ancient, but living structure.

Apartment

I am standing in the kitchen of a small apartment. I am leaning against the cool metal siding of a stainless steel sink embedded in a long white Formica countertop. The sink is clean and shiny, all remnants of past meals and dishes have long ago been scrubbed, dried and put in their spots behind white painted cupboards.
There is a window behind the sink. A crystal clear single-pane window that is uncluttered by curtains or shades. In perfect view is the gray cement rooftop of a tall red brick building across the street. It is so close I could jump from the window onto its sun-baked roof.
Two men sit on the cement, looking at each other, blocking the sun from their eyes with the aid of their cupped hands. Sunlight covers their legs and arms, brushing their already tanned skin. Just behind them are two wooden patio chairs which they have ignored, worn but well maintained red wood that lets off waves of glimmering heat.
Along the edges of the rooftop are red and pink geraniums in evenly spaced wide terracotta pots. The colorful petals are illuminated like stained glass, glowing in the afternoon light.
The sunlight streaming into the kitchen has taken on a pale blue color, verging on ice. The few appliances on the countertop are muted and fuzzy, seeming almost ghostly in shape and color.
To my right is a man. I can’t see his face, though I can see that his hair is dark and short, his skin is olive and tan. He wears red running shorts that reach his knees and a long white T-shirt that is baggy and slightly wrinkled. His eyes are fixed on the roof, at the two men sitting on the cement rooftop, on the one in red running shorts and a baggy white T-shirt.
Down the hallway from the kitchen is an open sliding glass door. A warm, yet slightly cool breeze blows through the open doorway. The wind plays with my hair. A black dog runs in circles on the balcony, barking excitedly in intervals to things I cannot see. The balcony is a mixture of sunlight and speckled shade. Any view from the high-rise apartment is blocked by tall, leafy trees and the thick interweaving vines that wrap around their boughs.