Morning by the Lake
Upon a winter weekend, at the first pale light, I walk briskly beside the lake.
The sun rises slowly, spreading soft gold across the water, warming the edges of date palms, neem, and ghafs.
A thin mist drifts above the lake, and each breath leaves me in quiet clouds.
Along the paved path, people move in steady rhythm, some stepping off onto grass still wet with dew or watering.
Dogs pull at their leashes; maids walk them while checking phones. Cats stretch, settle on benches, shiny-coated and clearly well fed.
From the trees come familiar sounds— sparrows chattering, pigeons cooing, crows calling— ordinary birds, part of the morning.
Everything is spotlessly clean. Paths, grass, benches— all rinsed fresh, catching the light.
I sit on a bench after my walk is over, the cold wood firm beneath my hands, watching ducks cross the water, small fish flicker just below the surface.
Children learn football nearby, their laughter carrying easily in the open air.
Some toddlers pass by in prams and strollers, blankets tucked in, eyes wide at the morning.
A small yoga group moves slowly through poses, breathing together.
Along the path, gardens spill with bougainvillea— bright in shape and presence, even if the colours escape me.
By eight, the sun is fully up, simple, clear, and warming. Joggers quicken their pace, dogs grow restless, yet the lake keeps its calm, holding every movement without fuss.
Evening returns around six. The light softens, stretching across the water.
Ducks drift, the surface barely broken. Birds settle into trees. People take the benches again, watching the sun drop behind the palms. From one house comes country and blues, from others, soft coloured lights glow— quiet, welcoming.
There is no other place I would rather be. It is peaceful. It is cool. It is fresh.
The air feels clean and full, easy to breathe. So far removed from the noise and rush of the city, I sit, I breathe, I watch.
And for now, that is enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment