The quality of light is different here.
It slants down through the trees and lands squarely on your hands holding a newspaper.
And my heart contracts with pure pleasure at just being here at this moment.
This air so different than home.  Redolent of history and rich in all that came before. Oakey and thick.
Creaking carriage wheels and the rustling of skirts.
Time slows down and stretches out before me. Buzzing and lazy.