i am no hero, that's for sure.

i've got this image in my head, and it's stuck on repeat, looping endlessly.

riding northbound out of toronto, on a greyhound. the sky is overcast and sullen and gunmetal grey and there's wind, but not the kind that makes your teeth hurt from exposure. the bus winds its way through streets, twisting and turning, escaping the urban ladscape. somewhere- i'm not sure, i don't know enough about toronto- we pass by a school, one that requires modest and old fashioned uniforms- skirts to midcalf, long jackts, clean faces. its pupils- all girls, from what i can see- stream from the buildings.

in particualr, my eyes are caught by a small group of four, their shoes, no doubt, making quick slapping noises as they rush home. their hair is flaxen, golden, dark, black, curly; their faces rosy, fair, pale and dark; their beauty endless.

i watch as the one in front throws back her head in a burst of laughter, her eyes dancing and her lips moving.

it's magic.