The bus is a good machine for seeing. It has slow and heavy motions, it groans like an elephant, and grazes in the streets. It rattles like a shelf full of silverware in a mild earthquake. When the wind is in front it is a fast and steady cold. Outside there are bees, and nests of birds, and bicycles but in the bus, there is a man with a large suitcase. He is sleeping. I sit, trying to be still and untired.