I don’t want to ride the bus – removed in perfect air-conditioned equilibrium

No hint of wind, no outdoor smells.

I want to feel the dirt road under my feet, the pungent smell of cows.

The bus drives through the landscape, not part of it, not in and of it

It leaves no room to pause, absorb

The oak leaf curled crisp upon the road

The rotting wood of this lonely bench

Or the creek splashing over its horde of stones.