Midwinter

The sounds of passing trains settle like silver dust on our houses

on still, subtropical nights like this, before a storm. The doors are open;

somewhere down the street a child is crying.

A freight yard borders the neighborhood,

and on clear nights we can hear the clanging bells.

The sounds of passing trains drift like airborne seeds above our houses,

sowing weedy, shapeless memories of places we've never been.

The neighbors play the mariachi station in the street at twilight;

trumpets spill from dashboard radios in a jangle of bright shapes.

Somewhere down the street a child is crying.

The ice cream man still takes his cart three times around the block

on temperate evenings. It’s painted aqua and pink, but plays no

music. On nights like this,

the sounds of passing trains accumulate in drifts against our houses,

and somewhere in the dusk a child is always crying.