Bus Stop

Petals float down in rhythm to the morning haze, fall at my feet. iPod Tibetan chant soothe into the curves of my body. The wooded slope behind me encourages last night‘s rain into rivulets. Downhill, on the horizon, the sea sparkles silver blue. Safe. A distant memory of grey wave frothing up a tsunami. The 103m mini bus nearly screeches past. I climb on, press my octopus card. $92 balance it indicates. The woman waves, throws plastic bags of rubbish into green trundle bin. The driver takes off, one ear plugged into his mobile phone. The woman misses the bus.