My clock tells me it’s morning. I’m greeted with it’s harsh cry and a bark from outside. The high pitch yelp, a strangled call, tells me the night scavengers are still abroad. I struggle for wakefulness. In less than an hour I leave the warmth and comfort of my home. In the streets there are few people about. But the world is waking.
It’s winter and I’m surrounded still in darkness that is punctured by a dowdy yellow. Surfaces are wet from nocturnal showers. I slept through them, not noticing their monotonous rap. I march past silent shops. Another pedestrian comes into view. I can sense their consternation and cross the road. A car passes, it’s beams cut a fresh path through the gaunt artificial light.
I make my way through a park as dark as night. A woman appears from the shadow. We pay no heed to one another and head on our way. My way: out of the park, across a road, between houses to where locomotives carry folk away. I see more people there. Like me. Kindred spirits of pre-dawn life. My unknown fellow travellers.