The schoolbus with the deaf kids is always the loudest.
The engine hums, pa-choom-ka chunka chunka vrrrrrr. The driver sings to the sounds from his radio tuner. He's the only to hear what the others can't. He ignores it from experience.
'Shirley, it's your stop!' Turns around, sign.sign. Nudges Alfred in the next seat over, sign.sign. Down the length of the schoolbus, no stop in the fracas of sound. Sign to one, sign to the next, exclaimations as the fingernails fly, 'Shirley, it's your stop!' Shirley reaches for her lunchbox and 'Oscar the Grouch' school bag, sing.sing, sign.sign. Running down the aisle of the bus, sign.sign, sing.sing. It doesn't matter whether the words match the motions. It only makes sense in a contextual agreement.
Wave good bye, signing departure and sing an extra note of gracious encounter with the fire hydrant by the curbside. Sing to the fire hydrant, then collected, run merrily down the street to the place of colors and lines.
On the schoolbus for the blind, no one sings except the bus driver. Tap.tap on the windowsill, on the seat, on the person's shoulder by the seat in front, on the floor with red-tipped cane. Conversations hush in the air with nothing more than stifled whispers. Tap.tap, there's a bird, I can hear it. Tap.tap don't open the emergency door again, tap.tap. Someone riddles a jar of marbles along the gratings of the overhead bag rack. Tap.tap, make it again. Rapa.tap.tap he lost his keys. I have them here in my hand. Furtive glances to faces that may or may not be smiling. Tinka.tink.tap.tap, there's a grate by the side of the road. Don't fall in. The alligators will eat you alive. When the bus driver calls your name, it's your time to get off tap.tap. Leave the taps behind and join the rest of the world in full surround-sound sound with lines and colors in the pavement.