Bus

      Like a spaghetti intersection, all roads lead somewhere.  All I have to do is decide which bus ticket to buy. I need to escape the high rise brick and dust of the city and go where the air is clear, leave the petulance of people's lives, their imagined importance and find the breath of mint and thyme in the air.
      I mount the bus and know I will not be able to read my book. I am on the cusp of some great moment and cannot concentrate. I avoid making eye contact with the woman opposite who bellows at the chicken in its bamboo pen ( he is destined for a feast, but not one that he will enjoy,) and I wonder why she does not just ring his neck now. I will never know. The journey of her story will be closed to me.
       The inbuilt rhythm of the engine ticks and roars beneath me and I feel it's effort vibrate through the floor, through the seat, and I feel my head begin to droop, my eyelids heavy. I dream of water flowing on mossy stones, milky white, a bee buzzing with its serendipitous find of nectar in the rhododendron haze. He is hesitant but happy. And so, as I breathe more slowly, deeply, letting go of the cares and frustrations of my factory life, am I. My every day life is hidden behind a microscope, frames within frames of a bigger picture. It is good to stretch wide and yawn with the world.
     
The air breaks hiss and the door swings open at the bottom of the woodland trail. There is only one road to follow, no choice; onward and upward to the fresh air and space.  Follow the water to its source. Stop take a breath. Be hesitant, but be happy, and when you come to the waterfall, the source of refreshment, breathe deep of natures nectar and be satisfied.