Trainride

The trees sleep - the leaves murmur,
The grasses read the sun.

Weeds place calls with their seeds.
Vines solve the riddles of the openings.

Reeds absorb raptly the scenery.
Rocks meditate on the world as it is, and as it might be.

The moss listens to the beat in the air.
The higher notes make flower tops quiver.

What goes on inside, despite all this, still hides.
There might as well be nothing but steely eyes.