There’s a sweetness to the morning commute; have you noticed? Everyone is looking their best, if a little sleepy (that’s part of the charm, the romance and weariness clinging from the night before). Bodies fresh, clothes fresh. Hair washed and combed. Many clutching coffee, though the most wide-awake have worked out already.
Everyone inward, quiet. Nothing bad has happened; it’s too early. No loud conversation. The amazing mobilization of the morning commute pulses with determination to get to a certain place by a certain hour. And you know what? It happens. The human orchestra hums.
The train creaks over the ceremonial bridges that Daniel Burnham dreamed of. This may not have been the exact thing he dreamed of, but still it’s awfully pretty: the river with its balustrades and fancy street furniture, the tiers of facades with their geometries, the shadows and steps of another day.