The Morning Rush

Breath is once again visible to the naked eye.  Our cheeks are flush and our noses burn, but we stubborn Chicagoans wouldn’t dare bring out a scarf and hat this early in the year.  Instead we wrap our exposed fingers tightly around our store bought coffees, willing the warmth to travel into our fingers and through our veins.  We stand on the platform in an orderly fashion, contemplating the pigeon walking along the railroad tracks.  He takes the same amount of steps in between each wooden plank but he does not walk in a straight line.  Suddenly he hops over the steel rail and off the railroad.  The familiar sound of the train invades our ears and we are all silently amazed at how that clever little creature knew a train was coming before the bell sounded.  We watch the hypnotizing three headlights of the train become clearer and we all shift to where we think the train might stop.  We are wrong, the train stops a few feet ahead of where we all crowded.  Eagerly we get on the train, fighting for that perfect seat.  Now all we can do is wait.  Wait for the conductor to take us to the place we so desperately don’t want to go: work.