The Corby Bus

Please don't anybody offer me a ride. I want to climb the wide stairs of the bus, be on my own to watch the mauve persimmon hysteria of beads in braids and hear the way you can pronounce things that would otherwise sound flat. There is wisteria (Who knew they were legumes?) to soften impact of the otherwise small spring air. I see I am a color, only one, mild by comparison to the more amazing jets of vibrant blends. I like to look out of the near-clear windows patched with gray and hand smudge at the micro-worlds like mine in passing. Can I learn to possibly remember anything from all this wealth of difference? Any day now, summer will pronounce itself and we may feel protected by long leafy arms that cover all. 

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