Tuesday, April 18, 2006

The Train, the Fields

Sometimes I am alone on the train,
and the train passes by plowed fields
and empty fields
and fields set in corn and grain,
and the lake lies beyond the fields,
and the lake is great and grey
and the clouds are grey and blue,
and the sun's rays slide across the fields like a bow,
and the fields flow, and they sing.
I am going eastward. I am going home.


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