Farming

Railroad

Trains come in colors, like some memories, the army green cars chugging students slowly from Helsinki to Moscow, pale yellow tea served with the winter sun, loose leaves floating in glass lifted in its ornamental brass base unavailable from Kolding to Copenhagen speeding bluer than the Skattegut crossed on ferries into which sleek cars disappear and reappear unlike New York subways, gray as age winding underground where the city darkens despite new mosaics, shiny tiles, and mayors who know nothing of Syria where light is color no metal makes half recalled by foreigners who notice an old woman with bags of food, offering thick dry cookies, sandwiches of soft sweet dough, tangerines to the French woman speaking six languages, the American pointing to the full moon, mouthing Arabic, Amar, as the bleached mountains pass enveloping it and the unspoken formal kh sticking in the throat as the walnuts cracked and passed around into hands assumed to be open when closed as a moving train jarring enough to pass imperceptibly inward as peeled fruit.