Slow Freight—Five A.M.

north wind brings the clear hush
before the primal sense of power,
the long, slow rumble,
then a pause, a wind shift,
and the long moan begins, the night
rider pressing down at the crossroads,
invisible haunts out of the past
scaring coyotes off the tracks.

not a speedster, no, more like
a sublime ghost working the rails,
trapped by circumstance, doomed,
derelict, a power to be avoided.

the open window lets him in,
and the visions are pure:
a rocking motor humming,
a flight running circles
into the deep-dark,
only one Volkswagen stopped,
the flashing red light, off-and-on,
blinking against the windshield
while sleepers grab their pillows,
and head deeply back to slumber.