The late-September night is cool and still.
I am dreaming of those things that cannot exist elsewhere.
The half opened window allows entry of the fresh wet autumn air.
From a mile away my sleep is interrupted.
A hollow echoing sound as the lone train crosses the county road.
For a brief moment I lie awake listening to the deep whistle.
I stare at the hazy light of the digital clock. 2:37 AM.
I hear a mild creek from the old house settling.
I roll over and return to the the place of dreams.
In the house that I grew up in, there was a train track about a mile away that was active at night every so often. I was usually slept through its whistle, but every once in
awhile it would wake me up. I usually don't mind being woken up in such a way.
Later in life I moved out of my parent's house and into my own apartment which was also by a set of train tracks. The train would wake me up occasionally, and I would
remember those nights at my parent's house when I would get up at night and look out the window when only a few cars were driving and very little stirred.
I attempted to capture those special times in my past with this short poem.
© Copyright 2002-2004: Dean Tersigni. All rights reserved.