Humans being humans

Walking down a hill

Weekday mornings, exactly seven-thirty a.m., a handful of people walk past our house. I hear them through the kitchen window. They are rarely more than a minute late. The persons in the group, all ages, all colors, are new each time, but their punctuality is unchanging. It’s uncanny. Is it a religious thing? A Krotona thing? A Theosophist morning ritual…