In the bus the tiny girl suggested many levels, layers of meaning filtering into a cozy bus from the information spread about in the bus around the driver seeing in the rear view mirror and passers-by who vaguely whizzed past him. It was for me to make meaning synchronizing my plane of existence with hers.

At another level a fuzzy sun set on the still lake as if the collected lake had to speak for the day without orange sun blazing in other side. We had to make our meaning from the tree by the lake.

On a sidewalk men sipped tea from the red kiosk. They made their meaning from the time and information in the trod dust of the road, in the bricks that piled to be built in a house wall, in the stray dogs that sat listlessly on the road and in the dry leaves that fell on the parked car.