quivering below, aspens cast off leaves unwillingly. such
is a stolid tribute to algid winds from the north. further
along, a patch of buttonwood; arms bowed and skewed
with nothing to give. the skein does not stop to rest.
the arms beckon, but tundra swans are notably resilient,
and Erie is far-away.
a young woman departs from her row house at dawn. the
city is quiet as the cold snap approaches. "it's silly
to be out before 7 here," her father says. she is not
used to wintery air in spring. the city does not love
her back as he said it would.
the steel of the track is numbing to the touch. she
presses her hands to rail anyway, and walks along,
a tightrope walker, one foot in front of the other.
she smiles, she falls. lying prostrate, she turns
to face the grey sky. the overarching sycamore arms
and frigid winds are alien still. but this is home now.
she rolls onto the track, knowing no freight has passed
in years, and pretends the gusts are train-spawn.
she is young still.
miles north, the formation continues, beaten ceaselessly
by the high cold. Erie is in sight. swans follow the railroad,
for it will lead them home.
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