It is winter and you are gone west
Where foothills crumble into desert
Resting your head against the black,
I imagine, the cool bus window.
The sun has fallen behind mountains
And left the night stained blue as the sea.
You hear a train whistle far away,
You tell me, doppler into memory.
The trains must flow like water, you say,
Seen from above, through the deep rock cuts.
Those are the channels where the unknown
Moves, the dark currents of continents.
Should I envy you the desert or
The distance, here in the rain-shadowed east?