Downtown windows filter the sunrise, returning gold, pure of colour and texture, to the morning. Night becomes day by the washing of windows with light, and the city begins to wake.

The wind came out of the south. It pulled at the edges of the tarp that sheltered the city workers as they attended the traffic lights that flashed amber beacons in each direction. Traffic stuttered across the intersection, following loose approximations of rules. The city lights and car lights together painted the canvas underneath the movement of the rain – first vertical, achieving horizontal, a visual cue that winter had come.

Bodies huddled in the shadow of the building, in the light of the old Chinese restaurant. The porous overhang marked clearly where was and was not safe to stand while waiting. A discarded take-away box shifted left, right – undecided but staying clear of the exposed edges. Distant lights marked the approach of the bus as it rumbled towards the malfunctioning intersection. The route number became clear through the haze, separating those for whom the time had come from those who remained, waiting for the next, or the next.

There was a crispness hanging in the air by morning. It had texture and taste; it gave the world a lens of clarity. Like the couple who leaves the party unannounced, summer had given way without a word of warning. There was hope that the rainy weekend would clear into warmth, laughter over ice cream. Instead, the shift of the wind brought long sleeves and scarves. Autumn had slipped over the hills, offering one last chance to reflect before winter would push all thoughts of the beach into the part of the brain that remembers and forgets.

They were strangers. They have always been strangers. No real history except for the occasional conversation at the cafe where she once worked. He’d never offered his name and she hadn’t asked. Theirs was a very simple relationship: anonymous and friendly. So why did he jump when he saw her on the bus? She sat, busily minding her phone. He didn’t stare. Months had gone by without a thought, but sitting this close, time held still. The bus slowed and she shifted to stand, her eyes bumping into his in the crowd. Their brief conversation was friendly and anonymous. She was gone and they were still strangers.

It’s 3:38 in the morning and I’m in the last corner of the bed, looking for sleep. It doesn’t usually take this long. It usually hides in one of the first two corners – never in the middle, even though I always look there first. Sometimes it hides in the closet. I hate that. There are monsters there. Under the bed, too, but even sleep is scared of those monsters. The hardest part is the waiting. You can’t go to sleep. Sleep comes to you. But only when you find the right spot.

The sun brushed colour into the morning sky, burning the high cloud and warming the hilltops, a backdrop for the wave of dark blue that was threatening to water down the city.

Dense cloud enclosed the city. There was no hint of neither the island in the harbour nor the hills on the other side. The haze was impenetrable to all but the briefest columns of morning sun.

Held steady in the grasp of the treetops, the low-hanging cloud stood sentinel over the upper suburbs.

The lightest sprinkle of rain was the only thing to disturb the morning air. The silence was not stolen by wind rushing by, not by cars on the street, nor by airplanes taking people to distant early morning meetings. The birds held concert over all else, and the world had a chance to listen. Better than that, the world had a chance to stop and listen.

The morning fog spilled over the valley into the oncoming sunrise. The harbour waved back at the sky. The value of morning is found in patience.