I miss the sounding of the trains at nighttime's pass
I miss my shoes on their trek, walking on the tracks.
One way there. One way back.
I miss the haul.
I miss the crawl.
I miss the distance.
Not knowing where I'm going,
But aware of the direction.
I miss the loud isolation even mentioned
Heading toward the setting.
Sun sets it's dark protection.
It's too silent without the whistle.
Tumbleweeds, telephone poles and thistles.
Rocks crunching beneath feet.
Cutting through town, cut down in half, like reapers wheat.
Weight of the freight passes me by
Storaged carts of orange holding nigh
The moon watches the sun to soon raise high
Chugging along in song, thoughts of mine