Decatur Rhythms: Brunch, Bells, and Books

Lyrics

Listen.
Do you hear it?
That's the first sound.
Before the sun is all the way up.
The CSX freight, miles away, singing its long note.
Then comes the clink of a mimosa glass on the patio at Leon's.
The low murmur of a Sunday morning story.
Someone orders coffee, black.
The scrape of a chair on concrete.
This is the city waking up.
One table at a time.
These are the rhythms.
The brunch and the bells.
The distant freight train that tells the time.
The laughter spilling from Oakhurst Park.
A city's heartbeat, not in a rush.
Just the sound of its own time.
By three o'clock, the sound shifts.
It’s the high-pitched shriek of a chase in Glenlake Park.
The rhythmic squeak-squeak of the swing set chain.
A mother calling a name across the grass.
It's the sound of scraped knees and summer air.
Unrehearsed and real.
These are the rhythms.
The brunch and the bells.
The distant freight train that tells the time.
The laughter spilling from Oakhurst Park.
A city's heartbeat, not in a rush.
Just the sound of its own time.
And then, once a year, on Labor Day weekend...
A different sound takes over the Square.
It’s not one voice, but thousands.
The whisper of turning pages.
The applause for a poet from a tent on the lawn.
The smell of paper and street food.
A whole city leans in to listen.
A story for everyone.
But when the tents come down...
and the last book is signed...
the quiet returns.
And that train horn comes back.
The last sound.
Goodnight, Decatur.