Homewards

My train rides north.
A gold caligraphy of cloud
writes evening on the sky,
but August woods
anticipate the night.

My train rocks north.
Stored light of August sun
is colour–fast in cornfields,
but the woods
think steadily of night.

My train goes homewards.
Under ashen clouds
a river coils, quicksilver,
and a solitary crow
wings silent into night.