A pair of train tracks, extending toward horizon’s gate.

A train on them, carrying sixteen random people, rushing headlong into wintry cold. Sixteen passengers reading magazines; gazing out their windows; sleeping sprawled out in their compartments, half on a chair, half off.

A silent observer, watching casually, standing in a field of wheat, myriad stalks rushing up like so many defiant fists at a rock concert. Wind rushing past, an omnipresent Mercury on his winged shoes; some wheat, whistling.

Exhaled breaths, nebulous clouds of precipitation, rushing away from their source of origin, dissipating rapidly in winter’s cold. A setting sun, quickly descending, painting an evening sky in red.

A train whistle, sounding loudly, piercing evening’s veil, sounding for one last time.

An observer, silent, uncaring, walking away, not witness to an ending.

A pair of train tracks, extending toward horizon’s gate.