walking.the.dog

Walking.the.dog

Somewhere in the distance, beyond
strips of pine and stretches of road,
the train whistle of my childhood
rings out.
Like a lonesome lullaby it carries me
back to my mother's room and the moonlight
filtering onto my covers, casting its
sickly, blue light, comforting me
from the sounds of the coyote chanting
to the iron beast on the tracks.
The coyotes have long since moves on,
but the train still blow her unanswered
calls over the river and into the night.