40.

Looking out of the window of a bus as it rambles through my city’s pot-holed roads is entertainment in itself:

The shaky view as my body rolls with the vehicle.

The sudden appearance of new details on buildings and trees and objects of old. Has that always been there? Why haven’t I noticed it before? Did I notice it before and forget? I’m growing old. Sheesh.

Cabs that try to turn at awkward angles at the stop signal, so that they can get into the lesser crowded lanes when the signal turns green.
Bikes that squeeze through impossibly narrow spaces so that they can zoom away when the signal turns green.
Bicycles that just ride on the footpath and beat everyone else.
Bus drivers that talk to each other through the windows.
Bus drivers that talk to their conductors.
Bus drivers that talk to their passengers.
Counting the number of cars, bikes, tempos and trucks that zoom past me on the other side of the two-way.

Grand old trees that I imagine have seen their world change and yet remained the same. Squirrels and birds that use these trees as their home, their playground, their restaurant.

Seeing familiar faces everyday.
Seeing new faces everyday.

My altering view from the changing skies to the dusty earth as I prepare to disembark this adventure, and await another.