Through a window, behind cars zipping by, the clouds haze over the trees and paint the sky like a tea bag in water. Mountains almost disappear in the distance. One grain field appears, a muted yellow, everything beside me softened by the clouds. I sit on a beaten-up velour bus seat behind a curtain that I can’t manage to close. If I tried, I’d probably succeed. But I leave it slightly so that it gapes open even more when we turn, a half-open door reminding me as the vehicles brake and go and I pretend to care about wasted time: soak in all that’s out there waiting for you.

Hair not quite dry from the shower this morning, at the cusp of the afternoon, I live here now.

Today I have time for traffic.