A Beacon's Glow

I swung down from the antenna mast onto the roof deck and headed for the corner aviation hazard beacon. Night air was biting, but the heavy glass globe was pulsing with a rhythmic, crimson glow, radiating a steady pocket of heat. Tangled across the wire cage surrounding the light was a discarded strip of reflective hazard tape, snapping sharply against the glass with every gust. I moved in fast. Planting my boots firmly onto the steel mounting flange, I seized the loose strip with both hands and wrenched it free with one clean downward tug. With the obstruction cleared, I pressed my back against the warm curved cage. The skyline below is quiet, and the signal burns pure.