The Morning Meeting

Every morning, before the sun comes up, a thin mist lies on Trout Lake. It hangs in the reeds and drifts over the glassy water, so light you could walk through it and not notice. This is where the day's first meeting happens, and almost nobody sees it. If you walked past, you would see a murder of crows in a tree by the water and one weathered street artist on a bench, paint on their hands and their jacket, feeding them. That is the whole meeting. That is exactly what it is supposed to look like.

The crows are reporting. They spent yesterday over the whole city, roofs, wires, walls, parks, the edges where the streets meet the water, and they have noticed which corners have gone quiet and where music and art and attention are running thin. They do not speak English. The artist on the bench understands anyway.

There is no chairperson, no agenda and no minutes. The meeting decides what the city needs today. Then the crows lift off, the artist picks up their bucket, and the water goes still. Somewhere behind them, without anyone noticing, the mist begins to move.