FROM THE TRAIN Tom, when the red light blinking warns the horizon is going off, dive for cover. When the children of ignorance curse morning, bury yourself in the mountains and come out by the sea. Gulls belly the waves or cry their hunger like wares for sale in the street. Swallows have nothing for coin except their flashy dives. To the seals, it's all a circus anyway, especially the people, crossing and recrossing on the laden ferries, inexhaustible. A circle of sticks in the sand of an ancient ceremony waits for you, as it did for me. Sails wave like hands above blue welcome. When the train headed East takes on night, close your eyes and reach for your heart. In Montana, rising clouds are called fallen clouds, and no matter how fast you spin, some piece of horizon is always watching the back of your head. Distance and silence are the same, did I tell you? So I come back to you by the mile and by the word. I call you my fallen cloud, so you will rise and hover just over my head, close enough to touch. When the rain comes down like a long-awaited traveller, open your eyes like lightening and your hands like cups that want at once to be full.