Essay On Early Morning Scene

After a stressful work or semester in school, people would feel pretty tired and want to do something to release the stress; everyone has in mind a place to escape to for relaxation. My place of relaxation is beach, especially the peaceful quiet morning beach. Where’s the place for you then?

It was early in the morning, when the sky was still dim, I was walking on the beach by myself with my scandals off, feeling the grainy sand that comforts my feet as I walked across the shore; as the tide hit on shore, the spray of water splashed on my skin, refreshing it was, I felt like as if I had drunk a glass of cold water on a hot summer day, and it drove the worm of sleepiness out of my mind. The salty air blowing on my face felt wet and cool as it passed by; taking a deep breath, it was the unique smell of sea coming with this blowingwing flow into my nose. How fresh and special the smell was, it left me with a deep memory.

The beach was very quiet, there was no sound of men, but the seagulls peacefully chirp as they soar overhead, singing, and searching for food; the howling wind whistles through the beach like an arriving train; as the crash of the waves thunder through my ears, like a gigantic monster crying out, showing his strength to the world.

As I looked back, the footprint I left showed my path; suddenly, a tide stroke on the shore, wrapping away the mark I had left, and then disappeared, left some stones it had brought with, as an evidence showing what it had done. Looking far, I saw nothing but the deep blue sea, it was as far as your eye can see, thus far and wide as if it was stretching out its arm, and wanted to hold sky into its bosoms.

The sun was like a naughty child, little by little, rising up from the edge of sky and the deep sea, smiling, showing his face to the whole world. His light painted the sky with red, as if the sky was on fire. Frequently, there were people who jogging, biking, walking out dogs, passed by here, adding vitality to this place.

This is the nature of morning beach; this is what is alluring me. Its quietness you can’t here in city, the site you can’t see in city. Here you don’t have to worry about anything, it wraps away all your stresses; it takes you into nature, as if you are a part of it. How beautiful the beach is! I felt like in dream, in paradise.

Descriptive Essay - New York City in the Morning

518 Words3 Pages

A violin song pulls us out of sleep, dreams of trains and pineapples, like a silk rope. He notices the morning light come to the wall. In the city we left only a few days ago, we learned about waking up before dawn, not to the light, but to the stirring that moves the blood in our thighs and hands. The morning was ancient before the sun even rose.

Rising early in New York City allows you to hear the birds on the street. When we emerged from the tight doorway leading out of the apartment, I saw that the color of the sidewalk and street matched the tone of the sky. A perfectly unassuming shade to provide backdrop for the yellow taxis and traffic signals. Scuff went out heels of our cowboy boots over the sparkling sidewalk. Sparkling with…show more content…

Now, at this hour of the morning when most of the city is just turning in for the night, we are awake to witness the changing of traffic signals with no cars on the road. Just a couple in boots and a street full of birds and empty taxi cabs.

The city is awake inside Penn station. We sit down right in the middle of the platform and tell each other stories about trains. I want to sit down and talk all the lost history like that deserving lover, writes Michael Ondaatje. There is a lot of history to tell each other so we begin at haphazard places, bouncing off new scenes we stumble upon. Trains. I want him to know about how I visit my family in North Carolina by taking the train down from Union Station to Raleigh. Even the plastic cup of fresh squeezed orange juice we bought for breakfast reminds me of places I have been that I want to tell him. We stumble over our histories, not awkwardly, but with the kind of joyful clumsiness and fervor of having too many layers of clothing to take off.

Riding the train with my forehead pressed up against the window as we passed over the city from high up on a bridge, I thought about Mama's street in Bensenhurst. The city lay out beneath the railroad tacks in a limited palette of brown and gray. The first thing I noticed when we emerged from the apartment this morning were these dirt tones. When Mama told me about her neighborhood, I always pictured

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