over the trestle

it's the deep wail
of the train whistle,
through the woods,
that wakes you as it crosses
the trestle. you know exactly
where it is.
you can see the long silver
cars, hear the rumble
of wheels thumping against
the rails.
you can see the people
sleeping, the reflection
of trees and sky
in the windows they no
longer look out.
three pulls of the whistle
and it's gone, you fall
back to sleep, hardly dawn,
the world pink with light.