There is no sound like that of quiet. Nothingness. Maybe a faint car horn in the background. A siren, perhaps. Everything still. Steam rises from manholes. Diners with few patrons. Windows wet. The sound of a glass door opening and shutting. Only briefly. Then, back to silence. It’s five o’clock in the morning.

He sits alone in Washington Square Park and hears birds chirping, singing, just before daylight. The air is brisk, and colors have changed. God bless Manhattan in autumn.

Vagabonds lay on benches. Some go through trashcans. Others look for cigarette butts. To find a half burned one is finding gold. He watches. Looks on. A regular is by his side in a blue and white cup that states, We Are Happy To Serve You. He takes a sip, and lights a loosie bought for a quarter.

Someday the smoker will be persecuted, he says to himself. They’ll ban these everywhere. The cigarette police will be out in full force. Wait and see. He laughs. Wait and see.

The sun emerges, and suddenly, there’s  sound. Night drops into day. A pigeon dances beside him.