Not quite so early one morning

On my morning descent, I notice that someone has dangled an ornament beneath the large gnarly branch of an ancient Garry Oak. It's the sort of quirky thing you'd expect to see in this part of the city, a tiny rendition of a birdhouse.

An older gentleman in stretchy light-grey pants notices that I have stopped to snap a picture and falls in step with me briefly, remarking on the neighbourhood, and how amazed he is that a family with small children lives in an enormous old house on the corner.

"Grandparents with money, I'll bet," I sigh. I can't think of many young families in the past couple of decades who could afford a large house within the old city limits without parental help.

"They've got a dog, too," I add. "They let him out in the yard by himself, I wish they wouldn't."

A friendly city worker cheerfully directs us to the other side of the street to avoid a cherry-picker, which is trimming back another Garry Oak from the lines and wires.

My stretchy-panted friend takes his leave and continues southward in his flip-flops.

Later in the day, the blessed rain finally falls.