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.
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.
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