I hear the freight, whistle blowing, headed up to Canada. Live near enough to the tracks that sometimes the heavy ones, loaded with lumber, headed back south, shake the house. The sound, rolling off into the distance takes me with it for a moment, far to the north. I can sense the distance, see my little house, my little life a dot of light in the dark among the trees from up high looking back as I am carried along in it’s slipstream.
Fainter now, leaving me back here, only sound the ticking of the clock.
Seems no matter how settled into a place I get, a part of me is on those tracks, rootless, rolling of to no particular destination, looking in windows flashing by, the comforts of ordinary homes silhouetted for a brief moment.