I drive
And compose with inward
Eye:
How the sky
Through my windshield
Along with Earth's garment
Trees, air, grass, and field
Seems still, fair
And meant to be

Silent sun and soulful air
While the bus creaks
We sit under its dome
A traveling temporary home
We climb a steep hill
Descend on valley splendor
Until I stop and a passenger
Enters - and doesn't pay the fare