Past the tunnel
The Pullman stops dead on the track.
Standing at the carriage door
I gaze at the silent sierra
Framing the distant horizon.
The once-dense forest cover
Has now been stripped almost bare.
A thin veil of mist bluish white
Hangs limp on the surrounding scene.
Just a few families
Linger in the bogie
Not sure
Being several hours behind schedule
Exactly when the train
Would chug into the station.