The Train Window's Litany

The glass holds mountains— too grand for names. Elara traces a peak’s sharp cut against the too-blue sky. *Zitto*, the train hums, *zitto*—hush now.

Fields replace the heights. Green—no, gold—no, green again as the light shifts. That summer she learned to ride a bike— the sting of gravel on her palms.

A river winks through trees. She counts bridges—one, two— then loses track. Like that boy who kissed her behind the gym. Gone. All gone. *Verschwinden*.

Now forest crowds the tracks. Pines scrape the window— a green blur. She leans back, breathes the remembered scent of sap and damp earth.

The train slows. Fields return— but softer now, familiar. There’s the crooked oak, the red barn roof. Almost home.

And there—past the last hill— a single point of light. Her mother’s porch lamp burning steady through the dusk. Home.

The glass holds mountains— too grand for names. Elara traces a peak’s sharp cut against the too-blue sky. *Zitto*, the train hums, *zitto*—hush now.

Fields replace the heights. Green—no, gold—no, green again as the light shifts. That summer she learned to ride a bike— the sting of gravel on her palms.

A river winks through trees. She counts bridges—one, two— then loses track. Like that boy who kissed her behind the gym. Gone. All gone. *Verschwinden*.

Now forest crowds the tracks. Pines scrape the window— a green blur. She leans back, breathes the remembered scent of sap and damp earth.

The train slows. Fields return— but softer now, familiar. There’s the crooked oak, the red barn roof. Almost home.

And there—past the last hill— a single point of light. Her mother’s porch lamp burning steady through the dusk. Home.