The rising sun washes the sky

with hues of orange and pink.

Families of birds chirp a warm salutation

to each other.

Rising above their songs

like steam above boiling water

is the hoot of a muted horn.

The sound rises and drifts

far from its source.

It penetrates the gray haze of sleep

until it reaches the mind of one slumbering girl.

She pushes the cobwebs of sleep away

and scrambles upright to listen.

Smiling to herself, she allows her mind to take her

back on smooth waters to the time

that she remembers so well. . .

A little girl walks tentatively into

the rock-strewn riverbed.

She shivers as her feet plunge

into ice water that is ankle deep.

The sharp scent of the pines and the gurgling sounds

of the river engulf her senses.

But there is one thing that stands out

stronger than the gentle lull of nature.

Shaking the trestle bridge

upon which it slides almost effortlessly,

it exhales black swarms of smoke and

hisses out steam as it passes.

The whistle blew softly as it rounded

the bend, sharing its mournful song.

As with all new sights and sounds,

the child was afraid at first. . .

Yet, she knew that the iron beast

could not mean her harm.

No, for it had been bourne upon

the backs of her great grandfather's generation.

The alarm clock blares

and I snap out of my reverie.

I look out the window and wonder

if I will ever see the magnificent

iron horse as it roars down the track.