Morning

I jump from pavement to pavement, avoiding the puddles, frog-shaped umbrella over me, protecting my glasses from the raindrops, pixie-hemmed skirt dancing in the breeze, tangled hair fluttering behind me, and I am listening to Kimya Dawson singing the lyrics, "I am the wanderer's wandering daughter". I cross the bridge and then look into the café that I pass every day, and there is a couple sitting at the table at the back, with newspapers spread out before them, and I smile at the familiarity of this scene, as they are there often, and then I forget about them and am thinking about the coffee I will drink soon.