The Long Walk Home

A whistle down the lane, a rumble on the track, in evening light wheels clickety-clack.  Down the rails, turning thunder, wheels cross the plains, sights of wonder.  The long ride home, brushed with sage, where oak leaves wither, heaven aged; little did I know, through the canyon walls and tunnels deep, never ending in the nights black, a long ride home would bring me back.  

Snows come down, in drifts of deep, a lone wolf calls but cannot sleep. White, whirling in the sky, ends this ride, with the long walk home, away from a whistle’s cry.