Neck stiff and travel weary, I turn my head and look past the haggard, sleep-deprived sojourner next to me, beyond my reflection in the Greyhound window, into the early morning sky.
Black clouds stretch like raven wings along the horizon, back lighted by steel gray as the sun waits off stage to make her entrance.
Miles down the road at sunrise, the moist, peach California sky is the same color that lines the inner folds of a seashell I found on a beach in Coral Gables, Florida; the clouds–shifting wisps of mauve—a similar hue as the Colorado mountains at sunset. At daybreak, midsummer hills imitate the variegated yellow, gold, and brown tassels topping fields of corn from my Iowa childhood.
We pass a County fair; the double Ferris wheel stands in bas-relief like a giant infinity symbol.
Beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, shimmering fog swaddles San Francisco. It is slow to lift and gives only a hint—a mere suggestion—that a city lies within.
The stippled waters of the Bay spread like cellulite-laden thighs.
At the edge of Golden Gate Park, a body lies prone in the underbrush of eucalyptus and cypress; one less nameless, faceless, homeless mark of urban blight for the equestrian patrol to roust.
Gray pigeons on the rooftop of a cheap motel smirk down at the pink neon sign flashing vacancy in a filmy window. Irony is not lost on them.
Wow! Though I wish to improve on my writing ability – I'm not anywhere yet to the skill you have on crafting ideas, expressions and thoughts like you did here much like a potter molds clay into a work of art.
🙂