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 It seemed as if the enormous journey 
was finally approaching its conclusion.
From the window of the train the last trees were dissipating, a child-like sailor waved once, a seal-like dog barked and died.
The conductor entered the lavatory and was not seen again, although his harmonica-playing was appreciated.
He was not without talent, some said.
A botanist with whom I had become acquainted actually suggested we form a group or something.
I was looking for a familiar signpost in his face, or a landmark that would indicate the true colors of his tribe.
But, alas, there was not a glass of water anywhere or even the remains of a trail.
I got a bewildered expression of my own and slinked to the back of the car where a nun started to tickle me.
She confided to me that it was her cowboy pride that got her through .
Through what? I thought, but drew my hand close to my imaginary vest.
"That's a beautiful vest," she said, as I began crawling down the aisle.
At last, I pressed my face against the window: A little fog was licking its chop, as was the stationmaster licking something.
We didn't stop.
We didn't appear to be arriving, and yet we were almost out of landscape.
No creeks or rivers.
Nothing even remotely reminding one of a mound.
O mound! Thou ain't around no more.
A heap of abstract geometrical symbols, that's what it's coming to, I thought.
A nothing you could sink your teeth into.
"Relief's on the way," a little know-nothing boy said to me.
"Imagine my surprise," I said and reached out to muss his hair.
But he had no hair and it felt unlucky touching his skull like that.
"Forget what I said," he said.
"What did you say?" I asked in automatic compliance.
And then it got very dark and quiet.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of an emu I once loved.

Poem by Edward Taylor
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Book: Shattered Sighs