The train flew down the tracks and blew its whistle loudly into the midnight air. Everyone could hear it, but no one told it to simmer down. It was only a train and could not hear; it could only be heard. 

Far off in the hills, a little cottage sat by a stream where a man painted the stars on his porch and often put down the brush to look at the moon. “Hello there,” he would say as he waved. “Fancy seeing you here.” The man heard the muffled train whistle, turned away from the moon and listened in. “You know,” he whispered to the moon, “the train whistle can tell me where the train is, but it cannot tell me what it is carrying.” He stopped and contemplated with a twisted face and one closed eye, then continued, “Curiosity gets the best of me sometimes. I want to paint what is on that train, but it is so far off, and my legs won’t get me that far.” He sighed and turned back towards the moon. “Maybe,” he said, “Just maybe it is better to leave some curiosities untouched.” His paintbrush returned to the white canvas, covered in clusters of black dots.

The train rang through more hills and let out more blows of its mighty horn and still nobody told it to be quiet, for the train could only be heard. A dog chased the box cars down the line into a small town where the smells of fresh bread carried it away, barking as loudly as the horn. The train did not slow down as it picked up candy wrappers and lost dog fliers from the ground and whooshed them away. The click-clack of the tracks woke up an odd-ball woman working the overnight shift at the post office. She wiped the drool from her wrinkly face and kept on sorting the letters and pouring the whiskey. She dug in the ashtray for lighttable cigarette butts but grew angry when it crashed to the floor. She clacked her lips together, stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth, and began to fall back asleep. Her eyes drooped slowly then popped back open. They drifted even longer, then softly opened for just a second then they closed finally for her peaceful sleep.

Life kept going for the train, and its heartbeat sang even louder as its speed accelerated when the outskirts were hit. Cows grazed the fields as the sun began to rise and school buses became visible in a puff of brown dust in the distance. The train was an amazement for the little ones and an annoyance for the bigger ones, for it whistled loudly into the morning fog. A hitchhiker walked alongside the tracks as the train passed, and he thought about his family back in Massachusetts, his mother’s cooking and his father’s tobacco pipe. He whistled a song that was inaudible due to the commotion of the train, but he kept on singing, for he was his own listener. His lips pursed together and his cheeks sucked in as he moved his tongue to create the notes for a melody that was unheard of. “My own creation,” he thought, “my very own creation that no one else can have, what a wonderful thought!” He continued on and started to skip, smile, laugh and look up to feel the new heat of the morning. The train kept going and left the hitchhiker behind. 

It blew through a city where cranes overtook the skyline and towers scratched the bottoms of the clouds. Cars drifted around corners, followed by red and blue lights, popping sounds and screams of innocent bystanders as they flung themselves out of the way. Children waved, and the train whistled in place of common courtesy. Trash overflowed into the streets, and billboards rotted with thirty-year-old ads for a deceased lawyer. A mother sat with her son on a swing set surrounded by gray grass and gray buildings, but they were dressed in yellow. Bright yellow that popped with smiles and joyful laughter. The child jumped off of the swing and ran over to hold on to the chainlink fence that stood in his way of touching the magnificent dragon body of the train. “Sam,” the mother yelled over the train, “it’s time to go!” The little boy waddled back over to the mother, who proceeded to pick him up and walk away. The train blew one last horn, and the kid clapped his hands in glee.

The destination was an ocean station with seagulls and sand that blew in the air. The night had returned with a full moon, and the train sat still, quiet, awaiting its next job. No one told it to simmer down, for it was only a train. No one told it to enjoy its last ride, for it was only a train. No one told the cottage man that he, that night, would become a star in his paintings. No one told the mailwoman that her last letter was organized. No one told the traveler his last step was taken, and no one told the mother and son their last mile was driven.