The clip-clop of horse hooves and four well-worn wooden wheels hitting the cracked pavement. The shrill, metallic whistle of the night guard announcing his departure. The coos of the resident doves. A car clunkity-clunks by, both it and the road sound as though in rough shape. The fruit lady is in full swing, shouting out her list of goods as if it would be the first time my neighbors and I were made aware of her existence. Not far behind, a hushed conversation ambles by. Barely audible it could be in Spanish, English, Egyptian. A rooster. Need I say more. Various other birds, with functioning wings, join the dialog, gossiping from one side of the street to the other.
It’s dawn. I’m not quite ready to participate. So I roll away from the early morning sun ray that has landed quietly, almost apologetically, on my bed and drift back to sleep.
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