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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.

General

Roof tiles of stoic rigour stood atop the house, Aria felt, with a special kind of humble pride.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 21, 2021.
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The roof tiles were as stretching golden arches under a forgiving early summer sun.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.
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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.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.
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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.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.
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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.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.
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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.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.
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The roof tiles greeted the rain as an old friend, channelling the rain into perfectly aligned rivers.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.
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The roof tiles had developed a sort of patina over the years, from the lichen and the weathering, rendering them all the more beautiful.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 20, 2020.