Clamor of a bank of missiles outgoing, clang of 'general quarters' and I wake. Drenched in sweat, I listen to a soundless night. The far-off howl of the freight jerks me from my brooding and the bed is no longer large enough. I shuffle through the house, joggle the locks, stand in the doorways of still rooms. The whistle, as the train passes through the village, echoes off the mountains, sounding like another freight beyond. I stare out the picture window at the shadows of those mountains until the rattle of the train dwindles to silence. It drags whatever memory woke me with it. I stumble off to bed.
a dog barks
a distant answer