Another dawn: joyous, painful, inconclusive. The streets of the Loop are beginning to jam. As the train flies south, each cross-street flies into view for a second, begging to be frozen in photographic time, a experience too fleeting to merit the name.
Yet the seconds do accumulate, just as beneath the train, the street scenes multiply, each a little different, each jammed with life, the footfall of a pedestrian, each car containing a person, or more. Strangers, perhaps; or is there someone here I know?
The still-cold buildings shine bravely, hit fitfully with the southern sun. Flags, surprisingly numerous, flap jauntily, interjecting a jarring patriotism. One knows Adams because of the Art Institute plugging the street, its pediment filling the gap satisfyingly, for a second, at least.
Down there is emotion of every kind. Some poor fool delighted to be alive; a young woman proud of her dress, her body; lifers bored or aggravated; cab-drivers stewing. More than one person thinking it’s a farce, wondering why they’re commuting, heads full of anxiety and money-worry.
Off to the office for another day, there to dream about love and the home we crave.