Morning

Morning.
Lazy. Undisturbed. Quiet.
Streetlights still lit
until at sharp six
they are gone.
The sun in the horizon
as if it has
one foot in the water and one in the sky
lighting up the world
one reddish gold streak at a time.
The stillness of the morning
broken as we walk
marketwards.
Pigeons fly in circles.
The night shift go home.
The boats roll
into the harbor
fish-filled and smiling men.
Bustling. Noise-filled. Productive.
Morning.