Not the station
which doesn’t exist anymore, but the rails,
a twinned bow draw across s violin
strung with bone, the earth’s fingered sorrow
felt as longing. A longing for what?
You don’t know, but you’re sure someone is coming
and something in the world is about to change.
You can smell it, that dry dust odor earth gives off
just before a rain. Lightening to the west,
a riff of dark clouds overhead and a hawk flies by,
soundless, its wings, serrated edges
drawn across the sun’s bright eye. A disembodied voice
announces the next arrival.