At the center of the most ethnically diverse county within the United States is a bus stop that connects three separate lines. Though located in the calm vicinity of a sprawling cemetery, during rush hour it becomes a clamorous confabulation as people flock to board, or alight to transfer from one bus to another. There is a lively cacophony as friends chatter in different languages, raucous adolescents preen and strut as they squawk, crow or shriek their greetings and farewells. Older women titter and cluck as they share the day’s events; older men hoot at each other’s jokes. Mothers coo to infants nestled in carriers.
As this daily migration begins to ebb and the sun begins to sink on the horizon, a mockingbird often appears to perch on a nearby streetlight and fill the air with the many songs he has acquired from parts and parties unknown. In a merry voice he offers greetings to his unseen bird friends: “Bonjour, Monsieur Bluebird! Salutations, Sir Sparrow! Lovely to see you, Lady Lark! Blessings upon you, Mrs. Blackbird, and felicitations to all your fledglings!”
The sun sets, the bird departs, and I drift home to roost for the night.
Shelia S.
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