Morning on Noriega St.

The white seagull
Sits at ease atop the telephone pole.

The old man rolls dough
Behind the windows of the old-world pastry shop.

He scrawls the specials in chalk
On a blackboard posted outside.

Across the street, the Noriega produce store
Proudly displays a tattered awning
Above the bins of bok choy, oranges, and persimmons.

All is relatively quiet on this Sunday morning.

Few cars honk their horns,
The sidewalks have been sprayed clean,
People pass by with no sign of hurry.

This is what I like—
To wake up early with the whole day before me,
And nothing particular that must be done.

Time slows down enough to allow
Sensations their own sphere.

Faces come into focus, revealing unique character
Instead of being swept downstream in a blur.

The blueness of the sky says to me
That hope is still a possibility.

The whites and greys of the clouds let me know
Their passage is sometimes soft and sometimes loud.

This slowing down allows me to see
What is really all around me
In its simplicity and endless variety.

©2016 Michael Fraley

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