Early mornings in the stone city is always your favourite time of day. The streets around you are lined with Victorian apartment buildings only a few stories high. They wear their age proudly. The stone facades displaying their history with a urban camouflage. A young sun sheepishly casts crude beams on semi-cobbled streets. It dashes away the lingering haze. A cycle, a dance, observed by a very few. You wander about the bus shelter, it’s a Sunday morning and the buses have a lazy schedule. No matter how many times you witnesses it, you are still surprised at the juxtaposition of the quiet found in this densely populated city.
All around you people take it upon themselves to fill the emptiness of the morning. Brightly clothed joggers make their second pass by you. In the distance you hear the familiar beeps of reversing delivery vehicles, and you see the local grocer through the shop window as they restock shelves. You used to silently rage at the thought of a six a.m. alarm. Now you are proud to be amongst fellow early risers.
The bus stop sits on a slight hill that overlooks the local park. A football pitch harbours an entire flock of resting white gulls, a few pale grey pigeons, and obsidian black crows dotted in amongst them. Every now and then human activity disturbs the resting birds and they stir at the new opportunities of food. Beyond them sits a pond rimmed with public benches. Waterfowl gather near an elderly man he sees every morning. He sits at the center. Sometimes on a day off you find yourself by the pond as well. By chance you had spoken to the man you now watch from a distance, he claims his was “the best seat in the house.”
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