Distant places call to me
cry out to me
every time a whistle screams
an engine revs a propeller buzzes
or a paddle splashes
the setting sun shimmering
across the iron rails fading
off into the far horizon
the current swirling and
weaving around the bend
the road climbing
the next hill
beckons me seduces me
pulls me like a moth
to a flame and oh
what a wondrous
magical flame
~ poem by Michael Traveler
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