Summer Time

I'm at the 3 terminal in Queen Anne, walking around Rogers Park. Six PM, and the sun is still streaming across the open lawn. Far away from the madness now, literally walking on greener pastures and chomping on my pesto sandwich. I stroll about in aimless circles, food in one hand and book in the other. I'm doing that odd dance with my hands, trying to turn the pages with one hand while I eat and walk. You know the feeling.

Over there, in the middle distance, is a small picnic; voices mingle with the warm breeze. Sounds always seem to carry further on the hot nights. Wafting gently toward me are their voices, and I hear snatches of their conversation, filtered by the summer air:

"That guy over there's the best bus driver."
"Where?"
"There. Walking by himself."
"That's a bus driver?"
"Yeah. No, he's the best driver ever. He's amazing. He says hi to every person that gets on the bus. And I mean every single person, doesn't matter..."
"Huh. He looks like a kid!"

I smile to myself. How can I not? Briefly I consider walking over to them, to thank them, to ask after their day- but no, no need to wallow further in congratulations. It's not about that. I'll let them have their picnic. Somehow it's better this way. I've heard what I needed to hear. Everything in its right place. 

Just some whispers on a summer breeze.