The bus is quiet today,
with the breath of only a small dozen commuters fogging up the glass.
I’m catching up on some reading,
highlighter between my fingers,
taking notes in my head,
knowledge sporadically thrown into the compartments of my mind.
Next to me, a lady is scribbling on a piece of paper.
She hums and taps her fingers,
bites the inside of her cheek and narrows her eyes.
Her hair is falling in front of her face,
a pencil’s stuck in between neat lips.
Her fingers are writing out music the rest of us aren’t allowed to her
She’s balancing sheet music on her knees,
only stopping momentarily to conduct the choir in her mind.
It looks like a big one.
I’m cramming last minute facts into my reluctant brain,
wars and names and dates long passed.
She’s creating something wonderful,
music a small dozen commuters can only imagine,