Lonesome train whistle somewhere in the night’s deepest heart, akin to a moment in Debussy’s Reverie…she silhouettes in the rocking chair whilst whispering down the pain of a child’s sore throat…the whistle mourns again, he’s leaving Ohio on the tracks to Chicago.
Third hour in the morning gloom. I hear the rumbling, agonizing train whistle…somewhere in the darkest aftermath of loss. The train runs on…but he has left the station.
690 Saint Paul 