• Everywhere people bustle about, rushing here and there
    Hunched inside loose coats, hiding under umbrellas
    Trying in vain to escape the rain that continues to fall without end

    It’s a misty morning
    Pale, clear, and cold
    The sky is overcast with clouds, but here and there a streak of blue

    The buildings look old and worn, paint chipping off their sides
    The pavement feels hard and unforgiving, cracked and broken in places
    The many shoes adding their noise to the day, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

    Gulls fly overhead, circling and calling out to one another,
    Searching for any scraps left on the street
    One lands on the curb, and is quickly chased off by a young boy in a blue coat

    The smell of fresh fish permeates the air, overpowers the senses
    Fish, crab, oysters, clams
    Wave after wave of smells attack, unrelenting

    Cars slowly crawl by on the road
    The tires wet and slick against the pavement
    Rolling, squishing, crunching along

    A whistle sounds from up ahead, shrill and loud in the morning air
    I look and see a man dressed all in blue, purple in the face, blowing on his whistle
    He waves a large red sign threateningly through the air at traffic

    Beyond this man stands a building, long and pink with a faded green roof
    Smoke snakes out of a single chimney; the lights in the windows look warm and inviting
    Atop the roof sits and old sign, like a fish, but the words have all worn away with age

    Pots of flowers, yellow, pink, purple, and red, surround the low building
    Shells and sea stars, puffer fish and seahorses adorn the walls and roof like trophies
    People bustle in and out, around and through; busily buying and bartering everywhere

    Through the doors the air turns warm and stuffy, but the people hardly notice
    One woman, young with her nose in the air, skeptically eyes a stand of fresh tuna
    “I won’t pay that much” she says in a shrill voice, “Might as well catch it yourself at that
    price.”

    A large man, with wiry hair and a gruff look, handles crab in a far corner
    “These ain’t nothin’ like what got back home” he says, his voice hard and salty
    Moments later he limps away from the stand, a bag of crab in his hand and a smile on his
    face.

    Flies circle over and around everything in the shop
    The buzzing of wings, the hum of light bulbs, and the crunching footsteps a cacophony
    I look around and see a world I would never leave