Walking to the empty station

just to wait in the stillness there.

Drinking from the icicles

that have a sour taste.

It seems the heavy engines

have moved away.

The scurrying of squirrels

in dry timber.

Curled leaves cracking

with their every step.

Ghost of my responses,

sit with me here awhile.

Let us stop preparing

and take the breathless ease

of lit horizons through

space or cells, in separate

dwelling bells.