It's the redness of the fallen leaves
the calico blue of the waterway
the pom pom shaking of the winter trees
the revelation of beige in ragged quills
That makes the homes so far away
and the people on the train no more than scenery
and I wonder whether we are seen at all
or whether we are watched like morning birds
As they harmonize their moves from branch to branch
experiencing up and down, together and alone,
one going to the wires, and one into the woods
in some unknown and vast choreography
And I see the people take the form of beasts
outlined out of star shapes and the visions inside dreams
alighting at the terminal, their creatures hid within,
to disperse in complex patterns only galaxies portend.
