The pale skinned Norwegian-American girl –
actually I meant lass because she was every inch
the Upper Michigan farmer’s daughter.
The actual German teacher in her mid-twenties
who was impressed that I had read Goethe’s
“The Sorrows Of Young Werther.”

The twins – at least they said they were twins –
from San Jose and looking very much unalike –
with guitars, in cases up top, that they took down
now and then to sing, in a high-pitched duet,
a medley of current hit parade songs.

And the nervous kid from Iowa who was
off to boot camp. Not forgetting the girl
who never once emerged from her headphones.
And the guy who lit spliff after spliff in the
bathroom so that the entire vehicle smelled
of weed. Then there was the bus driver who kept
his eyes on the road ahead and never said a word.

Did I tell you about the mountains?
They rose up on all sides, sometimes near,
sometimes in the distance. And the forests.
They were thick and green and widespread.

I could have spent my ride with face pressed
against the window, admiring the scenery.
But my curiosity and intrigue
sought out my fellow passengers.
And mountains don’t talk back.
Forests won’t share their souls.