Waiting, again.
Tracy Chapman is softly singing in my ear that all you have is your
soul… hunger only for a world of truth, ‘cause all that you have is
your soul.
I’m sitting here, waiting again for the bus.
I’m sitting in the shade. The bus stop bench is in the shade. The
shade is nice. It’s cool, and the weather has been changing. It’s
not so hot anymore. Summer is finally passing. Fall is in the air.
Lots of cars pass by. It’s the weekend, Sunday, so it’s an hour
between buses instead of fifteen minutes. That’s okay. I’m not in
a hurry. More cars pass by. I’ve lived in small towns that have
less people than the amount of cars that have driven by me as
I’m waiting for the bus.
Across the street, a cat is crouching in the grass of somebody’s
front yard like it sees a moth, or something in the grass. It inches
forward with its ears back.
Up on the roof of the house, a mocking bird is watching the cat.
The mocking bird screams something that sounds
like ‘cheeseburger…. cheeseburger… cheeseburger’.
The cat flattens against the lawn and turns its head looking for the
mockingbird. The mocking bird dives then, at the cat, and the cat
runs to a wood fence, and jumps up on top of the fence, and then
down into the back yard. The bird flies in the direction the cat ran
off to, and the bird is screeching.
I watch a white moth fly up from the lawn, and then the bus comes.
