Trainstop

As my eyes sweep greening fields I spy, over tops of ripening corn A train of no ordinary purpose It barrels at speeds supernatural Yet draws not a whispering It could be called a glory train It might be called a silver bullet But I call it the wind in my hair For indeed its change in the air Hitting this valley like a fist Crashing in like a tidal wave Or a newborn babe’s first breath People are going to stop and stare Some will run to stay with it Others will run to stay away from it But all will feel it deep in their souls For in the cool of the morning We are going to find what we lost And not everyone will like what we find