All year, every morning, I walk along the lake in my neighborhood. I go early, often before the sun is up. I take a cup of black coffee and, if it’s raining wear my blue baseball cap. Though it feels dark and ominous as I leave my house, before long it’s clear I’m not alone. Along with the birds, bunnies, beavers, raccoons and coyotes, there is a regular cast of human characters who inhabit the early morning with me.
There are Harry and Lucy, two old friends in their late sixties, who walk together, slowly, rain or shine. They are always deep in conversation, often laughing, but they never fail to stop and say hello. There are the mother-daughter duo Muriel and Heidi and their fourteen year old dog Constance. We usually cross paths around the bay where the beavers hang out. We like to stop and compare notes about how many beavers we see in the lake each day.
Constance their dog is especially predictable. She knows all the usual walkers and can tell when someone she knows is coming. As I walk towards Muriel and Heidi, Constance stops in her tracks and waits. As I approach, Muriel, Heidi and I smile at each other as I pet Constance and say good morning. We laugh together as Constance leans in for more pets. “Somehow she knows the regulars,” Muriel tells me, “she always stops and waits for her pets.”
There’s the woman with the full length black down coat and umbrella who has a distinctive lumbering gate and seems to be perpetually talking on her phone. But she never fails to say hello with her eyes. Once, when the sun was coming up behind my back, creating a pink sherbet watercolor, she put her hand over her phone and practically yelled with joy that I should turn around and look at the sky.
There are the husband and wife running team, fancy and fit like LA movie stars who always stop and walk for a few hundred yards at the same turnaround point as me. There’s the solo runner, a middle-aged guy who has one neon red band on his left arm and one neon green band on his right arm. He runs with robotic precision, so the red and green move rhythmically as he approaches. Always breathless from the fast clip of his jog, he’s says hello with a hand wave and a head nod.
There’s a bird watcher who live a few houses away from me. He wears one green neon band on his left wrist and drags his right foot, so even in the dark I know it’s him. I often find him near the sanctuary where the heron hangs out. We mostly exchange quiet smiles.
Then there are the bikers. My neighbor teaches at the local high school and we cross paths at the end of my walk as he races down the hill to the lake. And the happy biker, a woman probably 10 years older than me with a fluffy bun of golden blonde hair that pops out of the back of her helmet. She wears purple tinted biking glasses and is always smiling.
Sometimes I get home from my walk and I’ve seen ten people I know before my partner is even awake. Though my fellow early birds and I have had no real conversations, no news about our plans for the day or the week ahead, we’ve shared the quiet, private world of the dawn together.
When I get home from my walk, it’s off to the races. The quietness of my morning fades quickly. Once my day starts, I go hard until it’s over. But before bed every night, I prepare my coffee so I can turn it on first thing. I set out my clothes for walking so I don’t wake my partner. I go to bed knowing that I’ll be up soon. I’ll start my morning with the early birds, with a chorus of quiet hellos, smiles, hand waves and Constance cuddles. It’s the best part of my day.