today there is no poetry in the trainscape

dirt is dirt

the slanting sunlight on swiftly passing trees sings no melody

a field of beached pines swamped in bullrushes are no eloquent statement of place and time and passage

just dead trees with their feet mucking about in the water

the view from seat 6A populates and depopulates with people or pines, sumac shrubbery or streets at level crossings

no poetry. all is what it is

obtaining no meta

on the side road, there is a stop ahead.