Back 40: Travelers

Early one winter morning
while walking a wooded lane,
through the gray morning mist
the plaintive whistle I heard,
of an approaching distant train.

The train however, I could not see,
although I saw the track,
stretching miles across the mountains
to carry cars upon its back.

Toward the rails I proceeded to walk,
and the engine came into view,
deferring cars were pulled along —
companions I never knew.

The path I travel is mine to choose,
the train defers to the track,
ambling along, a melancholy song,
voices lamenting clackity-clack.

My heart grew heavy
as I watched the cars fade around the bend,
through morning mist toward eternity,
never to return again.

Far in the distance the whistle I heard,
forever somber and alone.
The train and I were much the same —
travelers in search of home.

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