At the edge of a park sit four retired men, two Russian, two Mexican – all in America. All wearing black. They are crowded at the far left of the low mossy concrete bench, close to the street and bus shelter.

On the passing bus every human is contributing their own verbal overlay. Chatty, like a tree full of grackles. The bus robot voice calls out the stops, establishing a rhythm: N. Chataqua, N. Denver, N. Lombard.

My eyes are closed, the glare is great.