Saturday morning in the city and sidewalks are busy. The last few clouds dissolve into wisps and puffs, and then disintegrate until they are no more. The sky is blue – bright and boundless.

Crowds flood towards the market from all directions. A thousand scurried ants, following the path lead by the ones before it, eager to reach the center. The sounds of harmonious voices, guitar strums and deep up-right bass hover by the entrance, greeting every guest as they pass through the doors into liveliness.

Then the sounds change. The music grows faint while hundreds of voices echo inside the huge warehouse – an exchange of buyer’s wishes and seller’s offers. Isle after isle, booth after booth, there are goods to be sold.

There are baskets of apples, pears and plums, ripe and ready to be eaten. Passers by take samples, popping them into their mouths and savoring the juicy flavors. Men walk around, biting and fidgeting with toothpicks as they eye up which fruits will be this weeks breakfast.

There are piles of carrots, potatoes and lettuce, with dustings of dirt hiding the vibrant colors beneath. Onion peels scatter the floor and crunch as old ladies hover, deciphering through the pile, choosing which produce will be good enough to feature in her famous beef stew tonight.

There is freshly baked bread wrapped in brown paper bags and pastries filled with “Grandma’s Homemade Jelly” that makes the little ones eyes get wide. She gently hands them their oversized Danish’s, larger than their faces, and powdered sugar erupts onto their chubby cheeks as they stuff the sweetness into their hungry mouths.

There are bison steaks, whole turkeys and chicken sausage links dangling down carefully crafted wooden frames. There are quilted blankets, fur throws, and hand-stitched purses, all bearing the hours and hours of careful, detailed labor. There are stone necklaces and gem earrings, glittering in the eyes of the little girls who slow down, reaching out to touch them but are quickly pulled away by their hurried mothers with things to do.

Morning turns to afternoon and the carts of goods dwindle. The crowd thins and the farmers and shopkeepers start packing away their belongings. The clock strikes 3:00 and the busy hub is busy no more. It it time for a late afternoon nap.

Written fall of 2016