Highway
In the middle of the night, the sound of the highway is a chorus of mechanical voices. Altos hum and tenors drone with an occasional rumble of baritone.
Low murmurs and mumbles and moans, with an enormous hollow echo, going on and on.
At 5:20, Amtrak passes by, sounding its whistle.
Last week, my daughter took her first train ride on Amtrak to New York. You should try it, she said. It was da bomb.
But I know no one in New York. In the middle of the night, I listen.
The dog wakes and walks to the door. Outside, the air is cool and damp with the earthy scent of spring. I walk down the driveway behind the dog, looking for deer, disappointed that the street is completely empty.
posted by Meg at
2:07 AM
2 Comments:
I like to pretend the highway sounds are the sound of the ocean, even though I've been there less than a half dozen times. And I too love the lonely sound of the steam whistle. It brings up memories of summer days with you in our sandy backyard and hobos walking down the alley. Thanks, Meg, for the memory.
Meg, remember when you and I went to NYC and we bummed a ride from that cute mailman who dropped us off at the hotel in the mailtruck, next to the limos?
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