the train whistle

when you hear
the train crossing
the trestle,
blowing it's
whistle three times
through
the deep woods
you think
about the passengers
asleep
at the windows,
warm as they world
rolls by
under the closing
skies. who's waiting
for them at the station,
who have they left
behind.
the lives they lead
so unlike yours,
sitting here,
at your own window,
thinking about who
has departed and
who might arrive.