My feet are cold on the bus to work Monday morning, March. Fog hangs on the hills and puddles lie in gutters and corners. Occasional showers chance of rain a thunder storm expected. If I were home in bed, if I wore warmer shoes, but I need to work. I don’t like leather shoes the bus is drafty and the driver doesn’t turn the heater on. Its noise would obscure the music in his head. His mood is romantic not industrial, although he doesn’t drive slowly over potholes. The windows rattle in their metal frames for every bump, durable, easy to maintain but not thermally efficient or built for silence. They let the air pass like trees without leaves. The cold whirls about my feet. I’d rather not continue if I could understand how I could control this situation. The Pacific Ocean does not protect us from northerly winds and the sun is small in the white sky.