The train chugs into town, its smoke rising over trees, black against the setting sun's spread of blue and tangerine. And still the pale and exhausted clamor aboard dust and soot covered, until the train slides forward exhaling.
Golden hawk your broad circles stretch the moments until your talons touch down, while the train recedes into mountain's violet haze.
Old Simon, a fisherman from a neighboring town rolls a cigarette and looks around then proceeds to tell one of his stories.
He tells them in segments, holding each of us enthralled as he puffs and blows smoke in the eyes of gullible youngsters.
Smoky mountain sunset the train of thought comes rolling in, no arrivals or departures just miles of rail going nowhere, clickety-clack clickety-clack.