I was watching the windows; full of droplets of water: each of them rushing in their own direction, orders from the wind. They were running in accordance with all the rules nature set for them. Diving straight down, straight across—sagging. Erasing other drops; becoming smaller drops. Rain on a window; I’m watching the window.
I’m trying to figure out what type of day it is, I’m also trying to figure out what I really think the type of day it is. The second’s harder, and out of the two it’s the only one that makes sense to answer. On the T.V. there’s a scene in rural Ohio, a factory documentary, over 15 years old. The music’s graying, the landscape’s greening and bored. Someone’s talking: “The factory spans 3 acres, that’s over 140 football fields.” I look around and its women’s heads on men’s shoulders, hoodies and blackberries; some people are sleeping too. I look back at the window, everything is happening at once somehow; the people are happening and the video and the windows. Incredible. I look around again for anyone’s eyes, to see if I’m the only one who isn’t asleep.
There aren’t any eyes but I wonder if it’s because I always sit in the back of the bus.
