The first thing I notice when I get off work and walk to my bus stop is that the sky is vivid with the amorous hues of a prairie sunset. Soft purples and wisps of red-tinged white clouds slide slowly across the fading dusty blue of the sky. My view of the sunset is remarkably unimpeded by the city, as I'm looking directly west down a low-traffic street. The drab power cables and obnoxious, tallish buildings in the background do their best to cast a damper on the living sky, but its sheer height overwhelms them and makes them look all the uglier.
There's my bus.
It's not until I've been riding for about 10 minutes that I realize I only saw the sunset today because daylight savings time ended this past weekend. For the first time since I've started busing in May, my bus ride home is subjected to the shroud of darkness. It's not long before it's fairly black out, and suddenly the press of the crowd on the bus makes me feel a little claustrophobic.
It's like we're a compressed capsule of flesh hurtling through the night, origin and destination unknown. I desperately long for the peace and relative quiet of the bus stop, never mind at home.
There's my stop. Phew.
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