I am a child again. I step onto the bus. I listen to music. I watch as my own Tara opens up to me. Fields and Mountains surrounding every corner of this world. I sigh and wish for some outlet for the bubbling ecstacy that this place seems to bring to me now. The air is still and cool, saturated every fiber and cell of my being.
I observe different pigments of green, in the mossy trees, reflecting in pools of water, on blades of faded and dirty winter grass. I think on different things. I think on the lovely reflections in the river.
I love the river, the river I believe, loves me. I picture myself crawling through the tiny bus windows, floating out, flying down into the bath of glitter and smiles.
I swim down.
Rushing to the bottom, tossing and turning I reach for the mussels at the muddy floor. These are rare mussels, they only live here and no where else in the world. In my river. My paint rock river.
Drenched and airless, I float down into myself, still sitting on brown leather seats.
Trees fly by me as we gain momentum. THey fly...swoosh, swoosh, swoosh...by me.
From this seat I look out and observe every joy in this morning. I float, with a hidden smile, behing my stone face, the rest of the way down the ribbon of concrete, to my destination.