the trains

before the train
crosses the trestle
that rises over the
hill then lake,
he blows his horn.
i can hear it at night,
when the traffic has
died down, when most
people are sleeping.
when the world has said
enough for one day.
but the trains run all
night, they keep moving,
like dreams, like
clouds, like oceans
pulled from side to side
by the power of a pale
thin moon. and the sound
of the horn gives me
comfort, it lets me
know what i need to know.
that time is moving
forward once again.