3rd and Walnut, Seven A.M.
The city wakes up slowly, delicately. Pink and still. Like a small house with wood floors, every sound and every movement is isolated. Noticed. Later, there will be no individuals. All become one, all contributing to one sound, one movement. A rhythm. Starting with a single clap and being echoed and mimicked until everyone is on their feet. And the sundial controls the volume of the freeway’s moan. Eventually, when all of the city’s fingertips are in motion, that collective song of the sea of single cars becomes the equivalent of silence. A re-zeroing.
For now it starts like the rain starts and each drop gets a reaction. The panting jogger thinking about the presentation he has at eleven. The workers walking confidently on scaffolding that surrounds the museum tower. The garbage truck exchanging growls and smoke for discarded items in the alley. The vagrant collecting her things to become invisible until the light is gone again. The bystander, stirring creamer into his coffee and staring, waiting. Taking advantage of the delectable moments before he will have to participate in objective thought.
My work day is over and I am packing my things for the journey home. Joining the masses for the great migration. I follow the same route home and I will not see a single person.