Ocean Drive, 6 a.m.
The neon still shines but the strip is quiet, just a soft stir of the day starting up.
Last night's party bars, soon to be this morning's breakfast joints. Booze cleared for eggs and coffee. Tables wiped. Same stools, different stories. Miami mornings know how to flip the script.
Out east, lightning flickers on the Atlantic. Way off. Just enough to light up the clouds, silhouette the sky. No thunder. No drama. Stays offshore. Not our problem.
The beach isn't empty. People arriving to greet the day. Early joggers, couples strolling, barefoot in the foam. A guy with a bike, spokes catching sunrise instead of streetlight. A kid, board in hand, hope in heart, charging into the water. No waves. Just ripple and splash. Doesn't stop him trying.
Lifeguard towers stand watch, pastel-painted: lemon, mint, powder blue, flamingo pink.
Sunrise takes its time. Slow burn behind that cloudbank on the edge of the world.
The sky shifts, first hints of gold, barely there, creeping across the sky. The heat is starting to build already.
South Beach doesn't rush.
It just arrives.
One quiet moment at a time.
Step off the sand, cut through the palms at Lummus Park, and the tempo changes.
A pack of joggers thunders past, breath synced to stride.
Skateboards snap and roll. Bikes cruise the pathways.
Muscle crew's already grinding; pull-ups, push-ups, sweat's up.
Neon's turned off. The sun clocks in, casting palm frond shadows across Art Deco facades. The buildings don't shine now, they smoulder. Golden tones.
Colour without flash.
Style without effort.
This city doesn't sleep, it shifts.
