Train

	Technology’s sad coyote howl echoes in the night. Foghorn of the land, the train’s whistle hums in my ears. In the darkness of the night, though the viewing glass of my mind, I see the sad figure of an ancient rusted train, pulling itself along well-worn tracks, with only a dim light ahead and darkness behind. The smell of autumn hangs in the air. Dew on grass, and dying leaves giving up their last breath of summer air. Crickets, the white noise of the South, chirp incessantly. Only when they fall silent, do you notice they were there at all. Fire, burning, soot on the wind, brings the taste of black and death to rest upon your lips. A sudden crunch under your bare feet is felt but not heard over the locusts unending cries.
	The train whistle, a signal to my mind to lower the gates and flood my brain with memories of one, particular day. Always back to that one day, half remembered. Sometime near Thanksgiving, when everyone comes home. All the faraway family together in one house, under one roof. All is silence. The night is clear, crisp.  The moon is full and large on the horizon. I go outside to bring in the dogs for the night. A glimpse of the sun’s shrouded brethren makes me pause. Against the house leans a sturdy, chilly, red painted ladder. The sight beckons me to better view the moon. So I climb the ladder and quietly clamber up to the top of the roof. There I stand. Staring up at the great glowing sphere. Seeming almost close enough to reach, I have an urge to touch it. A single cloud floats lonely in the sky and the moon hides behind it. Again the hollow, lonely sound of the train makes its way to my ears. The cloud moves past and I stand there, in the moon light.
	If I am up late, and I hear the whistle blow, I feel the moonlight on my skin, a chill creeps into the room, and I know that, once again, the mental gates have opened and the memory has descended to float peacefully into my dreams.