Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. As I commute into work, I take the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually end up facing backwards, watching as the city slips by. These vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see.
Clank of a gray dog’s leash as I’m waiting for the train.
Flash of police lights and an ambulance down the street.
Heat of the sun outside of the shade.
The swoosh of doors opening, cool air on my bare arms.
Looking around for an empty seat.
Glint of the sun against windows we pass.
Toe tapping tunes in my iPod.
Laughter bursting from mouths on people behind me.
Colors popping from the graffiti along the ride.
Blue of the sky. No clouds.
Squeaking rails as we come around a corner.
Movement of the water on the Jones Falls, moving in the opposite direction as the train.
Chatter of people around me, heard through the lens of Florence + the Machine playing in my earphones.
A sneaking glance to the title of the book that the woman in front of me is reading.
(It was just small enough that I couldn’t catch the title.)
Pages yellowed. She had a bookmark that she kept pinched between two fingers of her right hand.
Clang clang clang of the safety arms, which are down, and the rumble of the idling cars, waiting to cross the tracks.
The train continuing its northbound journey.