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.