Where To?

The doors fold open as you reach the curb. Overhead the grackles are going over toward the creek, all at once. The driver holds out a hand for the pass, reads the date on it, and gives it back. Where to? he says.

Above the windshield a roll of stops turns by itself, one name to a turn, and he reads each one out as it comes round. The Point, the light's on. The Bridge, seven o'clock. The Cabinet, mind the camphor. Oakwood, one note. The Trail, steep. After the Trail the roll comes round to a blank, and he reads that too.

Every seat is empty, and warm.