On Weekend Mornings in the City

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning before the city awakens from its nightly slumber. All is quiet and still, save an all but inaudible buzz emanating, I believe, from the hundreds of thousands of snores from the tens of thousands of apartment dwellers in the thousands of units in the hundreds of buildings that line the dozens of streets in my in-town neighborhood. It is peaceful and quiet and calm. I can close my eyes and imagine being in an open field, on the top of a mountain, or deep in the woods—it is that calm and that peaceful. But I keep my eyes open as the stillness is treasured even more here, standing in such sharp contrast to the cacophony of sounds, tensions and bustle that filled the city only a few hours before, and that will soon explode again. For a short time, it is just Bailey and I, and the occasional passersby, almost always accompanied by a dog at their side.

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning when the street lights change for no apparent reason, with no one to stop for the red, no one to go on the green, and no one to ignore the yellow. A thirty-something man frantically trying to hail a cab to National has yet to dry from his shower. An early twenties girl, disheveled, hung over, and having to think far too much about remaining upright while walking, has yet to wipe the stupor from her eyes and fully remember whom it is lying beside her. They will appear soon, as will many others. Soon, a young couple will tie their laces and stretch their tired muscles in preparation for a morning jog. Soon, a middle-aged woman will speed by, marching primly and orderly to the market so as to get the absolute best pick of the absolute choicest vegetables proffered. Soon, from all the brunch places that line 17th, the chatter of overly enthusiastic, brightly attired young gay boys will combine with the clinking of Mimosa glasses and the clamor of flatware and plates. And soon a woman looking far older than her actual years will shuffle through the contents of her cart, carefully rearranging the remnants of her life, before slowly strolling the streets of the city for another day. But for now it is just Bailey and I, and the occasional passersby.

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning, when all I hear is the clicking of canine toenails against the concrete sidewalk, and the ting of dog tags clapping against each other. The clicks are more rapid this weekend, far faster then in many weeks. And the claps come so quickly as to become hard to distinguish one from the next. I cannot explain this change, and don’t particularly care to give it much thought. For now I prefer just listening to the round of applause Bailey’s clicks and claps offer to this new day.    

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning when the sun is gentle and the air is yet to be thick and wet. I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning when all is quiet and calm. I love walking with Bailey on a weekend morning when the city is just beginning to awaken and the air is effervescent with the hope of a new day.