poem

The Fitchburg/So. Acton line to Boston

The crow, rocking on the fence at the
Concord station, calling, calling
Two deer, lunging up the embankment, away from the
Icy river drifting under the old arched bridge,
Under the baby blue sky peopled with fleecy clouds,
Gliding stately.
Pine trees, beseeching, next to a huge open field, white with snow,
Only one set of tracks bisecting it -
Then past Walden Pond, frozen in white robes,
A lone man walking a black dog.
The train rolling slow, past vistas lovely and open
Or crowded with houses or black empty trees against
That soft blue sky, rolling under graffiti-splashed bridges,
Past dumpsters and brambles and cattails, the snow everywhere melting, raining down
The roofs of every station on the way.