The whistle, the rumble and the shuddering in the walls and window panes of the tiny enclosed porch at my grandmother’s house was the music of the passing train.  I lay buried deeply in the feather mattress and listened with delight to the rythym
of the rails singing of destinations yet to reach.  The full moon shone brightly through the web of curtain and on the dusty panes leaving dancing patterns of tree limbs on the walls.  Belonging to the world of the train drew me in to peaceful sleep; clack, clack, clack my lullaby.

In another time and place, my form no longer light and spry, I lay in bed and listen to the passing train.  And I remember.  The moon shines with its silvery light still, but I am not the same.  And yet the train rumbles and the window panes rattle as track stretches into black lacy treelines and over swamp waters mysterious with dark shapes and goes on for endless miles into the night.  Somewhere the roar of the train disturbs and owl who has perched on a dead tree limb, yellow eyes round in search of mice.  His broad wings cut the sky.  Somewhere a fox dashes off the track.  And I lay and listen to the clack, clack, clack but do not find my lullaby.  I lay awake and think of all the trains and all the time that’s passed.