Sixty feet below, horse-shaped ice flows clog the Connecticut. Up here I absorb the thrum of the wheel well, trying to think. Of you. Even iced-over, the river churns, angry but waiting. The bus creeps, chock full of Wal-Mart workers and high-school girls named Julie all on cell phones. All screeching and giggling. It’s Crazy Tuesday at the Jiffy Lube. A man named Ruby seated behind me murmurs, planning his brother-in-law’s stabbing. A soft-drink cup clamped in a Julie’s thighs sweats. The straw fills up with orange soda. A marble—a glass eye, the universe—rolls up and down the aisle every time the driver brakes or speeds away. He could kill us all. No one touch it. Outside Wal-Mart, a pile of grocery carts atop a mountain of black snow. The workers rise and stumble silently off. Clydesdales on my mind. Christmas bells. Sparrow hawks. I don’t love you. I was wrong back there, a river doesn’t know or care about anything. I am staying on this bus.