I wonder if the roof tiles miss the rain on these long summer days. I wonder if they miss making their together song. Or perhaps they await the tickle of bird feet and a hearth-warm breeze. Or maybe it is the variation that makes these seasons special.
Roof tiles of stoic rigour stood atop the house, Aria felt, with a special kind of humble pride.
The roof tiles were as stretching golden arches under a forgiving early summer sun.
The roof tiles were a brick-red and so neat in their rows, not any one of them keeping the home warm and dry, but each of them so vital.
The roof tiles had been there long enough to gain the softening appearance of green moss, yet still were strong with many years of life in them.
The roof tiles were the kind of black that brought perfect starlit nights to the imagination, the kind lightened just a little by a full and bright moon.
In the light of the summer day the roof-tiles had absorbed much warmth, so much so that they felt as a hot bowl of soup beneath the palms.
The roof tiles greeted the rain as an old friend, channelling the rain into perfectly aligned rivers.
The roof tiles had developed a sort of patina over the years, from the lichen and the weathering, rendering them all the more beautiful.