Capital Limited Train to Chicago
Slant light falls faintly on frosty panes.
I quiver lightly with the moving train.
Swerving and circling, the train rumbles and strains.
Passengers sway and lean on the moving train.
The clanking of drums as it grumbles, complains.
I listen to shrieking wheels of the moving train.
The train treks through deep quarries and plains.
I’m soothed by rocking on the moving train.
Grey rocks rise up along colorless streams.
Snow geese fly above the moving train.
Black sticks of trees as backdrop to sky,
traces of snow drift on the moving train.
The steeple stands high against billowing clouds.
Winter white stains windows on the moving train.
We march past white caps, hawks disdain.
I arrive in Chicago on the moving train.
Mary Westcott
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