The opening in the tall fence is more a door than a gate. It is heavy and the hinges creak and whine as it swings open. Stepping over the crevice between the basketball and tennis courts, we move toward the track. A thin line of gray on the horizon gives the promise of sunrise.

The oval track is laid out before us like a game board. We step onto the asphalt and join the march. The scene flows from one setting to another, creating a collage of all the board games from my youth. The other pawns are just ghostly shadows with only their white hair visible in the dim light. As the ground mist lifts, their features come into focus. These are not simple wooden figures painted in primary colors. We are all part of deluxe editions.

A jogger passes us, his slow gait like a metronome. A sweatband holds the white hair back from his face. Even after he passes the beat of his footsteps pound in my head. A man with a stout staff plods around the perimeter. Bathed in the glow of a streetlight, a man with thinning hair and a cane leans heavily on the fence and observes our progress. We follow behind a friendly couple as they zigzag along the track performing an intricate pattern of steps known only to them.

Sunlight pierces through the thick tree leaves. In the growing light dark clumps on the horizon become endless strings of two-story rowhomes. They line the streets around the field like red plastic hotels.

Goal posts at either end of the field mark spaces for game cards. Clouds tinged with color are captured in the frame of their upraised poles. Circling seagulls play King of the Light Post. Their plaintive cries urge us to draw a card.

The timer runs out. Church bells ring. On cue a white utility truck diesels up the street.

Occasionally younger people have appeared. They slip in like misplaced pawns that belong in an After Sunrise game. But only those in the white haired group are regulars every morning. In the beginning we passed each other in silence, each wrapped in their own morning fog. Gradually, as the days passed, we became accepted as part of the routine. Gruff good mornings softened into smiles and warm greetings.

I begin to see myself in these early risers. The neighborhood is a different place before dawn. While windows are still dark and the world is asleep, the elderly crowd ventures onto the quiet streets. How long have they been a part of the stream of players that circle the game board? Are they new to this neighborhood, or were they once one of the sleepers oblivious to the morning routine? Although it will be some time before we are members of this elite society, for now we are tolerated and greeted each morning.