Glimpses of green peek
through a sudden snow,
on a clear morning.

Cold steel rails carry us over a
bridge offering the view.

My daughter nuzzles my arm,
rocked to slumber by the
rhythm of the wheels,
as their voices echo
in the valley below.

Where do the echoes end,
wandering away like a thought
you try so hard to hold?

A station stops the song;
only to start the next verse,
with it’s straining departure.

There’s another track full of sound,
as we become part of the record.

The record of our lives ends
with the last echo.