A long bleeding whistle strikes
the air over a small village.
Rattling wheels of the black engine
spills steam to the sides where trees grow
and children point with curious eyes.
The song of shivering metal runs
the tracks hard; doors, front lawns, gates
and faces all appear the same.
The next curve and bend own the
vision of me.
The passing land is marked with crossroads.
Towns wait in the labor of growing,
each building a dream.
93 miles to go. Almost into home.
Roger Singer 