They topple out of shattered windows.
They soar: two or three at once or four.
They fall straight as straws.
They do not tumble like a child’s jacks
but fly straight. The frantic arm waving is over.
They fall resigned. They do not try
to reach out for help. There is no root
or rock outcropping one who slips
from a cliff might hope for.
One woman, garbed in a cotton dress
white with patterns of bright colors,
tumbles from the tower to my left.
She is pointed head down, her garment trailing
like a drogue chute un-opened.
The wind is brisk, it catches her in a gust.
As she drops, she is gathered up by it,
her path diverted from its downward line.
She is pushed sideways toward the tower.
She is not flailing, her arms do not reach out,
her legs do not swing. Is she without feeling?
Is she unaware? Is she already dead?
Perhaps she closed her eyes at the ledge
and she waits until it is over.
The mean North wind puffs itself up
into a furious blast. She is blown
into the side of the tower
slamming hard against it. It is a cruel
game the wind and tower play together.
It does not seem real, so high up and far away.
They are dolls, flung down
by an angry spoiled child.
It is the defenseless ones that pay.
The little Raggedy Ann,
in her white patterned dress,
bounces off the unforgiving wall.
Mercifully, the wind at last releases her
and allows her to complete her drop to earth.
I am witness to this and embarrassed.
I am an intruder on the most private moment
of her life: her death.