The first note is the soprano singing of the crickets. There is no one else around. It is still dark, the world is not yet awake. Even the sun is sleeping somewhere, yet to rise over the islands and the mainland.
There is the percussive beat of the footfalls of man and dog, the dink of the aluminum tags on each other. Heading east toward the ocean, they move onward to do their business.
Few stars in the skies, the air is humid and still. The morning breezes have hours yet to step up and create their own magic when they will lift leaves and butterflies and caress skin and fur reliably.
An undertone from the distant highways drone on. A bass note from the few that have arisen before the dawn. Wheels on pavement, motors forming a glissando toward tenor. The four four beat of a motorcycle is faint but audible.
Clicking of pads on pavement add a bit more to the sound poem. Crunching of gravel under foot speaks of movement.
An alto sound of someone's air conditioning compressor firing up joins the mix. There is a problem with that particular apartment's motor, a metallic grind whining its voice asking for attention.
Moving away from the homes, the crickets fade, sounds become more mechanical and artificial. Large tires screaming their way over the intersection make a loud deep note as they pass by. The shushing of a vehicle approaching the few open businesses ready for the morning. Over the distance there is a thump as a car door is slammed, a chirp of a car alarm, and feet move toward the gym glowing in the predawn gloom.
Returning home, the symphony ends. Passing by one last schefflera tree, an applause sounds drown out the crickets as the first few morning breezes lift the leaves and clap them together while the palm fronds accompany with a background rustle. Time to start the day.