I hear it long before I see it. Its whining whir, rising and falling arhythmically, is more penetrating than loud, and it feels as though it might be the ghost of a memory or a dream (nightmare) imprinted on my imagination. The ghost of a bus of another day, another early, reluctant morning. Surely it cannot take so long to cross the barrier from sound to sight. But yes, finally it rounds the bend, lurching towards the stop with another fretful, resentful whine. All too real. I pity the driver who must listen to its complaints all day, unable to become inured because it is never constant but changes cadence, pitch and urgency at a dizzying pace. The sound is all too gratingly familiar and yet impossible to wipe from consciousness. Finally it stops and I climb aboard, swallowed into its protesting onward journey into day.
Picture courtesy Pixabay
Picture courtesy Pixabay