Place

The street before anyone is on it belongs to a different town. The same buildings, but unclaimed. A delivery van idles at the corner. The bakery light is on and the bread is not yet out.

I like this hour because nothing is expected of it. The day has not begun to make its demands. You can stand at the window with a cup and be nobody in particular.

Then a door opens, a car starts, and the town remembers what it is. The hour is over. It was never meant to last. That is probably why it is so good.