Minute drops

The first train blares its horn
ripping thru the quiet town
at five:eighteen
in lieu of the alarm clock
that ran slow-
it goes to show...

Kicking up dust and sand,
it may take some time
for the eyes to adjust
to light rays
lasering the pupil
shrinks as day
cracks the ceiling
wide open.

It smells distinctly like rain
that none saw coming
since there were no puddles
to prove it.

Tho the tracks
were both still
warm to the touch,
and the mist counts
as precipitation.

It adds up over time,
and passes the miles.
Blurring the light infinitesimal
strewn across space
in broad strokes.
Time keeps losing its place
on the train of thought,
while the whistle blows
such primitive perceptions
as these right
outside the window.

Crystal beads streak
backwards behind the ears
as memories
dew
condense and transport us
while wide awake
but a little late.


Painting by J. M. W. Turner, pre 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.