The Song Thing. By Wayne H.W Wolfson.
Dawn, the world wakes up in layers. First is the lone bird nesting among the trees in the courtyard. A plaintive series of cries which come; come closer together as the light sharpens into focus.
Next are a few trucks, low growls as they crawl out of the city; sentenced to a life of manual labor and early mornings such as this.
The grating sliding up the front of the boulangerie, the oven hissing with impotence as its young are slowly taken away one by one, to be devoured.
The old men are already starting endless games of Mexican Train which they always stop when the church bells ring. I sometimes hear a song, coming, always from one street away. If it is not too late I go to investigate, stopping for a coffee, the owner with her shrewd eyes and guarded smile, she knows how I like it and always has the right change hidden in one of the sail-like folds of her apron.
I hum to myself until I think I hear the refrain, always a street away, a little North perhaps.
The streets are still empty, unless I waited to long. Now its the definite no which I always hate. I was supposed to be here with a friend, but who? I am alone, I am happy.
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