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.

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