good morning

turning the infinite hexagonal corners of the flsr,

 I hear the bus screeching, pulling away. 

I am not on the bus. again.

running across the parking lot, my bag hits my thigh 

and I slow and I stop and I stomp my foot on the concrete,

 too hard, and throw up my hands and mutter angry, venting syllables. 

all before I realize that I am not angry. 

it is not cold, but pleasant. my bag is not heavy.

 the breeze blows my fresh hair not too soft and not too hard. 

my scarf is amazing. 

my music is new and bouncy and matches my casual step. 

it is dark. my feet are light. not too cold. my heart is light.

good morning.