[I wrote this just shy of three years ago. I still enjoy this view into the start of a perfect morning when the kids were younger.]

The sound of silverware clinking on dishes.

No line.

No rush. 

Cashier at my favorite breakfast joint who remembers my name. 

Free coffee refills. 

Classic rock soundtrack not yet drowned out by a crowd. 

The friendly, hollow clunk of pots and pans from the dishwashing station.

Watching someone artfully handle a floury mound of biscuit dough the size of a basset hound. 

An aproned woman between the grille and the biscuit oven pausing to drink from her cup. 

My feeling of unannounced solidarity with the relaxed staff who, like a certain parent of an infant, have also been up several hours and relish each sip of coffee. 

The man in black jeans with the white wolf head stencil coming from behind the counter to fill a glass of ice with Stumptown from the pot on the bar. 

Morning routine before the rush. 

I will be home by the time their lobby fills and the line threads down the hallway toward the street.

Crowds will drown out the music.