7. A Train, Stopped

You sit up from a velvet sofa.

You’re not sure how long it’s been, could be since the start of time.

Hot Mediterranean summer fills the train car up to its brim. A spillover would be tragic: sleeping passengers upside-down under purple chaises longues, flopping around on the desert floor, ejected from tranquil aquatic slumber.

Noon sunlight blares from the window next to you, framed like an old postage stamp and about just as dusty. The contrast won’t allow your eyes to adjust to the dark interior here.

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But it feels like there’s no movement at all.

[ Catch snippets of piano music drifted from another carriage ] —

Suddenly, a lurch.

The railcar begins to move — and the people within it too.

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// Side B //

Thank you for tuning in. That was a clip from “The Kindred Bird Embarks”, an elegaic poem of gratitude dedicated to Barry Harris. The notes arrived when, upon learning the maestro had passed, I sat at the piano, thinking about his phenomenal composition “The Bird of Red and Gold” —

Recently, I sat down to explore after hearing about the death of another musician of heart: George Winston, whose December graced each childhood winter our extended family gathered in the snowy mountains of Colorado. The first 14½ minutes of a 76-min peaceful-build improvisation:

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We’re back from hiatus and there’s lots of commotion over here at the Travel Poems office. More soon, including gifts for all of you lovely folk.

🔮