The bus plays the music of the spheres, it is a model of the universe, a miniature cosmos, a metaphor for everything, it is circles within circles, the first circle: the loop of the route along which the bus runs, tires spinning on their own smaller axis as they propel the greater cycle. There are other cycles as well that join with the turning of the wheels and the rhythm of the route to form a sort of orchestra. The roar of the engine provides a bass drum roll over which the back and forth swish of the wipers tap out a snare beat while the hiss and click of the opening and shutting doors and the clinking of the change in the box round out the percussion section. Strings are played by the squeaking of the breaks and the whine of babies over the consoling shushes of their mothers. And of course the bus is outfitted with its own horn section, rarely used but powerful in effect. The voices of the passengers provide the rest of the instruments, an ever changing parade of involuntary musicians, joining in a song that span forever. Sometimes a couple might duet with an overly loud conversation or a brave soul might solo into a phone. So few people on the bus notice the music they are making but the bus driver hears it all. There are pauses in the cycle, but always temporary and systematic, as much a part of the music as a pause between movements. Besides playing the horn, the doors, the brakes, the turn signals and calling out an occasional 'move on back,' the driver conducts the whole overture, keeping precise time, maintaining and enabling what is already written on the page, keeping the cycle running precise, the wheels circling the city as electrons circle the core of an atom, like a moon circles a planet, like a planet circles a sun and a sun circles within a galaxy, always wheels within wheels, rotating round and round, round and round.
