Angels on the bus

I'd properly goofed off and thought the singing was in my head. You don't get close harmony on a bus. You get nasty little kids rapping "motherfucker! Motherfucker! to themselves like the old-time psychotics, the ones that used to smell.
Or some other aggression: "Man stand up
Man get cut up
Man get shot good
In my hood
What's that all about, then? In his hood? Is that why they're banned from shops, these hoods?
Well anyway, I'd drifted back up to the surface of life, back to my seat on the bus, and the singing was still there. Like I said, close harmony. Beautiful.
This was Sunday afternoon, and there were angels on the bus, somewhere.
I opened an eye and squinted down the front.
No-one there.
The singing went on. Male and female voices. Not too many, so I could pick them out; the different entwining melodies, bass tones and sweet tenors.
I turned my head to see the angels, it was definitely coming from behind me.
Across the back row, there were two middle aged black ladies with the biggest hats on, tufts of material floating away from them, bits of stuff hanging off. Could've looked ridiculous, but they looked glorious. And there were two younger black guys, suited and booted, done up to the nines, and wearing their clobber well. With pride. And they were all singing.
I must have been staring, looking mad and bleary eyed. Trying to take it in.
They all seemed to look me at once, and they all smiled.
I smiled back, and then laughed, and could feel a tiny tear trying to pop out.
I didn't let it, but this was a beautiful moment.
I hate buses. That's why I goofed off, I suppose. That and some other stuff we won't go into here. And I've always got my guard up mentally; the top of a bus can be a dangerous place. But this lot were just going for it. Enjoying the moment.
Beautiful. I let go of my bags full of cynicism and let the world be a real nice place for a while.