I can see them in my dreams, all the time,
in my dreams,
the train tracks — witless scarecrow roads
that wait. Time,
time is always late
until it goes.
I don’t wish on stars anymore,
I wish on trains.
Listen on any day for the sound of them —
they are like crows; they project their souls,
and if you listen, anywhere,
you can hear a train. I hear them.
Time is not vocal
but I hear it, too. I must have good ears,
at least in my dreams.
The slashing, rhythmical, shrieking steam,
toward, onward, on to, headed for,
headlong, hell-bent, westward, break-neck,
grinding, frozen bolt of night,
blinded, howling at the light —
open your ears when you’re in sleep,
or anywhere.
And I see them all the time in dreams,
train tracks, waiting, listening.
One day I’ll see the train go by,
reach out to the reckless speed before it’s gone.
Maybe catch a handle fast
— any train may be the last —
hold on. Hold, hold,
on.
— Stephanie McLintock
white pebble 