The Terminus

The winters that followed the rainy floody days at the farm
When we remained like rodents confined within the cottage–sometimes damp, sometimes warm, eating tubers, gourds and pumpkins and at times loaves of bread, and sipping at steaming-hot sweet black tea or homegrown coffee.
The smoky smell of smoldering grass mixed with mud and cold black earth
The babbling pops of the hollow and spongy stems muffled in the dewy piles
Chafing on through the foggy mornings, cloudy days and hazy evenings.

Small children, far from the civilization, we waved our lantern hands in the evenings to the thin traffic far away without them spotting us,
We waved our lantern hands to long skeins of seaguls and sang to them, and we thought they sang back to us.

Days and nights passed like the cars of a midnight tain,
Long and slow but steady, lit with fluorescent light, but the inside hardly visible or a bit too fast to see the details,
Tantalizing, and just showing the movement, the ceaseless movement
To some terminus where time will stop and rest like a fuming hot train at the end of its long service, to cool down soon, for good.

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