I’m not like you, I think as I timidly take one of three remaining seats. I already know I am mistaken, though. I am the white-haired woman with the walker and the fluid bottle attached to her arm and the belly spilling forward. I am the skinny blonde sitting next to me. I am the black guy sprawling over two seats, looking grim, don't even ask. I am the man squeezed against a filmy window reading a paperback. I am the two men three rows in front of me wearing cheap gray suits and ties.
They all have beauty. They all have lovers they want to make love with. They all have judgments about their neighbors. Me, for example.
The driver knows when to no longer read his book and put the bus in motion instead. He was waiting for a light rail train to arrive and distribute its clientele.
A man across the aisle asks me, "Is that your book on the floor?" I look. There is a bible at my feet. "No, it's not mine."
Two men move a pink sofa in a yard. Ahead of us snow covered mountains. We pass "Bill’s Live Bait," "Signs West," "Valley Bank and Trust." Horses in a field. Huge split level townhouse structures. A barn type church. Fire department. Grain silo. McDonald's, Walgreens. Sonic.
How can I not be in love with this world?
— BEATE SIGRIDDAUGHTER
Beate Sigriddaughter grew up in Nürnberg, Germany, and now lives and writes in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she has served as poet laureate. Recent book publications include a short story collection They Didn’t Know What to Say (2026) and poetry collections Circus Dancer (2025) and Wild Flowers (2022).