The Kayak and the Train
Out on the middle of the lake,
blue sky over calm water,
over my shoulder I hear
deep rumble and whining shrill,
rusty wheels on steel rails —
a long slow train.
A hundred cars at least
lumber past the cliff:
from where I sit I can see
the whole length of it.
It does not intrude
on the calm of the weather and my thoughts;
certainly it takes
no notice of me.
When you paddle with the breeze at your back
the water
offers no resistance to your stroke.
The swelling waves lift you up
passing you along. I wonder if
when they ride the rails
the engineer and brakeman feel that lift.
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