Far away, the train sounds like winter,
Calling up images of flakes falling softly on powdered streets.
They are bright in the darkness.
The silence is not as empty as it seems.
Quiet is just another sound
For which we have no name.
It hums along to the staccato keys and the pages
Flipping, slowly and more slowly,
Until they drop off altogether.
Finished or fed up?
The pressure of fatigue
Grows heavier, pushing
From behind as fingers cease and
Thoughts drifts off.
No warmth and comfort here,
Simply cold set deep in bone.
And that deep far off horn still sounds like snow.