North by Northwest

Asphalt stretches into the distance —

to my right,

sun-drenched waves of grass

and a river

carving its ancient, shifting course;

to my left,

steel rails humming

with a train

in restless migration.

On the riverbank,

cottonwoods shed seeds

drifting on a boreal breeze.

Spun tufts soon become wings:

tens of Sandhill cranes rising

red crowns flickering

over the flowing field.

A steel beast

thunders past

on parallel rails,

boxcars migrate beside us,

slicing green waves:

rail

road

river

meridian

adjacent veins journeying.

On the distant horizon,

track and highway dissolve into light,

the invisible promise of

somewhere

else —

past and future fold into each other.

Will seeds and cranes

always migrate beside me?

I hope so.