Sunday, October 03, 2010

Portrait of a Sunday Morning in Congress Park

7 a.m.

In the stillness of the city morning, one drunken woman with a beautiful singing voice, alternately bursts into song, The Star-Spangled Banner, and then bursts into tears, lamenting something...lost love maybe.

A helicopter hovers loudly, chop chop chop, capturing images from the Race for the Cure as the runners take their mark and the walkers mill about waiting to line up, a sea of pink caps and pink shirts, signs pinned proudly to their backs announcing celebrations of survival and honoring those who succumbed to the fight.

In the distance, a train whistle blows, too far away to hear the clack of the wheels rumbling over the tracks, traversing the country hauling...what?

A few foolhardy sparrows chirp, the blasted pigeons coo - charming they sound while they shit all over the cars.

It's too early for much traffic. Hangovers are still brewing in the heads of the sleeping and it's too early for brunch, so mostly the growl of engines are 3 blocks up on Colfax, the longest street in America, creating a steady hum punctuated by the occasional lack of a muffler.

The slap-crunch of the jogger's feet go by heading to/from the park in the crackled, dry leaf droppings of autumnal trees.

It's cold. Cold enough for socks and a cat-fur covered fleece robe and the whir of the space heater covered in summer's dust.

Good morning.

A year ago:  Why Hello There, October!
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