I dreamed the city's rooftops were opera boxes

I'm standing on the low roof of the old post office, and every rooftop across town is a private opera box — strangers leaning over their chimney pots, some in dressing gowns, all watching me. I open my mouth and instead of a note, a flock of paper birds flies out, and they applaud, not for me, for the birds. I wake up still feeling the breeze of it.