Through a haze that was part breath, part exhaust fumes,
he peered up through the holes in the corrugated iron bus stop canopy,
and imagined—in the swirl of yet another motor-oil morning sky—
the rise and fall of green hills,
the aroma of fresh soil released from within the essence of decomposing leaves,
exhaled only by the breaths of creatures that roam the depths of the earth.

He picked at the dead skin under his wrist watch,
and decided that was exactly where he should be heading—to the hills,
or the depths of the earth, perhaps—whichever came first on the path
he’d been struggling to find for so long.

Rainbow dirt-puddles rippled to the drone of his approaching seven O’clock bus;
he zipped up his top, adjusted his goggles, and lit the fuse.