<![CDATA[Brian Theoret - Notes in the Sandbox]]>

<![CDATA[Brian Theoret - Notes in the Sandbox]]>Fri, 27 Feb 2026 11:59:59 -0500Weebly<![CDATA[What fresh new hell is this?]]>Wed, 17 Dec 2025 15:46:48 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/what-fresh-new-hell-is-thisI wake. I listen. I wait. I think. I cringe. I trill. I dwindle. I shake. I stand still. I sit.
I ache. Another. I sleep. I wake. I listen. I wait. I cringe. I thump. I dwindle. I shake.
I stand still. I sit. I ache. Another. I pull the cork. I sleep. I wake. I listen. I wait. I think.
I cringe. I pulse. I dwindle. I shake. I stand still. I sit. I ache. Another. I sleep. I wake.
I listen. I wait. I cringe. I palpitate. I dwindle. I shake. I stand still. I sit. I ache. Another.
I empty the bottle. I sleep. I wake. I listen. I wait. I think. I cringe. I tremble. I dwindle. I shake.
I stand still. I sit. I ache. Another. I sleep. I wake. I listen. I wait. I cringe. I shudder.
I dwindle. I shake. I stand still. I sit. I ache. Another. I drift. I sleep. I dream.]]><![CDATA[Object Writing Word of the Day - [cake]]]>Mon, 25 Aug 2025 01:49:32 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/object-writing-word-of-the-day-cakeThe first bite seemed to take moments that felt like minutes to develop on the tongue. Sweet, followed by strawberry with a hint of raspberry on the nose. It’s tartness coming to me almost instantly after the strawberry hit me. The icing was melting almost immediately upon my first chew. It was Sven’s birthday and I hadn’t seen him in years since our last get together, a funeral down in Key West. I could still taste the briny air and feel the wind on my hot, salty skin. Shrimp was cooking on the grill. Not too long I said, I hate it when it gets chewy. A little extra lemon please. She placed the chilled glass on the sail boat coaster next to me, condensation sweating off the glass in cool drops on my arm as she passed it across my body.

The ring of the bell tower over my shoulder startled me out of my fog. The mist parting in front of me. The breeze here was not crisp and cool like it was that night on the keys. It was stifling. It felt like I was inside the heart of a beating furnace. I yawn as the day gets to me. Fishing is not for the light hearted weak soul, especially if you don’t have your sea legs. Luckily my steadiness from which I draw my breaths help the assimilation to the sea manifest itself whenever I stand on the deck of a boat. I itch from the bite on my ankle. Slight sting. Intense itch. I can’t scratch it through my shoe and it’s driving me insane. My eyes burn with concentration as I try to reach the swollen raised bump under my sock. Every time I itch, it makes it worse.
]]><![CDATA[Object Writing Word of the Day - [ship]]]>Fri, 08 Aug 2025 12:51:00 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/object-writing-word-of-the-day-shipThe moment the bridge was flooded by the saline spray of the Indian Ocean, I could tell things were going sideways.
My eyes stung like pickle juice had been flung into my eyes. I'm thinking too much and just need to write down in my log what's happened and where we are going, what we are doing, what I'm seeing, hearing. I taste the ocean on my lips as the boat rocks suddenly to the starboard side. My ankle gives way in a crack as I slip on the smooth floor of the cabin that's been my home for the last 3 months. I reach down to grab my ankle and suddenly the boat calms. Nothing's moving. Am I dreaming? I see a star over my left shoulder, its light blinding my eyes, leaving a glowing halo on my retinas that I can't look past. The orbs block my view of everything in front of me. Panic sets the hairs on my arms and neck to stand. Cling. Cling. Cling. It rings in my eyes as the water drains off my face, along with the blood in my veins. Smoke ringlets dance in front of me as the orbs start to dissipate. Clang. Clang. Clang. It rings again. Closer. More resonant. I hear footsteps on the cold grating above me, but my vision is still blurry. Consciousness leaves like an exorcism in reverse. Contorted and breathing heavily. I inhale the salty dew and go into a violent coughing fit. I'm not going to make it. Cling. Cling. Cling again. Wavering back and forth as the sinking vessel lists. I don't know where I am, but I see the sunlight and I see her face. I can keep my eyes open for only a few seconds longer. Cling. Clang. A rush of wind and light pours over me and I'm out in the sunlight before my eyes can adjust.
]]><![CDATA[Object Writing - [Prize]]]>Mon, 07 Jul 2025 15:45:41 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/object-writing-prizePrize - sight, touch, hearing, smell, taste
Brian Theoret - July 7, 2025
The smell of gas fumes and burnt rubber filled my nostrils and my sweaty, damp forehead crunched up into a wrinkled mess as I took the corner at 107 miles per hour. The g-forces pulling on my neck and arms with such force, straining my muscles inside my flame suit. The computer at my fingertips, with its myriad of buttons, levers, and flashing lights went from green to red as I hit full RPMs at the apex of the curve. My mind was blank. I couldn't think. Or I didn't need to think because this was all automatic. My mind was so fast that everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. The taste of sweat on my lip, saline, boiling, humming. The blur of the red blazing lights in front of me blinking, as their battery sips on its charge, building kinetic momentum between the leads. The buzz of 50,000 to my right, the rattle of the curb to my left, I take the next corner at full speed, faster than I ever have before and I taste blood in the corner of my mouth. I must have bitten my lip on that last listing curve, almost rattling my fillings loose. I grip the steering wheel firmly but softly, it's a gentle touch that gets me around the track in one piece. If I grip, I'm bound to slip. I can see the glint and shimmer of the trophy. I can feel it, cold in my hands as I lift it above my head, the dryness of the champagne cooling my super-heated body and the crowd below, holding me up on their shoulders. It wasn't just me in that car. There was someone else. Somebody pushing me along, keeping me moving towards the checkered flag. I can see it again when I close my eyes. Black, white, like a checkerboard. Checkmate.
]]><![CDATA[The Wasp]]>Thu, 19 Jun 2025 15:05:48 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/the-waspA jingle whispers in my ear as I sit on the patio listening to the dull thud of the kick drum in the café down the dusty street. It's Monaco in the summer. I've never been but that's where my mind is taking me right now. I look up at the sun, its rays beating down on me, heavy with intensity and warmth, charring my skin. It's like I'm on a grill grate, slow-roasting from the indirect flame.

Zzzzz. Zzzzz. ZZZZZ!

The black-and-yellow striped devil, with its shiny eyes and murderous face seems to blink at me as it hovers for a second in front of my eyes. I sit, trembling, sweating, not so much from the heat anymore, but from the impending sting. I hope it doesn't happen. I hope it doesn't land on my nose, its spindly legs tickling my nostrils before shoving its red-hot iron poker into my face.

ZZZZZ! Zzzzz. zzzzz.

I stand, legs trembling, aware of the sweat beads lingering on my cheek and forehead. My locked jaw unhinges and loosens. I hear the hum and rattle approaching again. An explosion of sound and wind comes around the corner. The papaya-colored sprinter flies by faster than the blink of an eye, yet the whine lingers for what feels like minutes. Is the buzzing in my mind or coming from my shoulder? I stop breathing for a moment. Chest heavy. Lungs bursting. I slowly turn my head, timidly, inching my view closer to my shoulder's crest. What would normally take a split-second feels like an age.

The mischievous face blinks at me once again.]]><![CDATA[The Winter Won't Chop Down This Tree]]>Sat, 14 Dec 2024 17:17:14 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/the-winter-wont-chop-down-this-treeMy ankles are chilly as it’s cold in this room
I should do my chores but I can’t find my broom
There’s dust on each surface and grit on the floor
Just a small path uniting me with the door

There’s only one clump of coal in my basket
To keep this place warm and fit to inhabit
I’ve run out of milk there’s a hole in my pocket
No tea in the pantry the fever is starting

The shuddering of windows as the wind says hello
I can hear all my children skip and play down below
Their laughter’s a smile to my worn tender face
Last evening they picked me some primrose and lace

We had us some porridge and bread with some milk
Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk
The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street
We may not have much but we have us a family
A blessing together our happy retreat
The cold of winter can’t chop down this tree

We had us some porridge and bread with some milk
Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk
The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street
We may not have much but we have us a family
A blessing together our happy retreat
The cold of winter won’t chop down this tree
The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree
The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree

Brian Theoret
12/14/24

]]><![CDATA[A Whisper Among the Willows]]>Thu, 20 Jun 2024 12:56:59 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/a-whisper-among-the-willowsI am about the head out on a journey to a place that doesn’t require shoes or shirts and arms will be itchy and legs wll be sore and minds will be racing while I head out the door. There will be whispers among the willows and wakings from beds that sway in the moonlight a pillow under head. There will be sunshine in the morning give thanks for looking over us. Your warmth provides cushions from the coldness of the North. The edge of the darkness will wander around your feet while the path lit up ahead will stamp out a beat. Beautiful buzzing bees will dance from petal to flower us with honey, sweet and drizzly under our tongues. Your waist up to the water will be surrounding every inch and bog full of bull frogs as they cantor in the wind. The whispers among the willows once again will wake us from our slumber in the pine grove by the windmill in our minds.]]><![CDATA[A Lesson from the Woods]]>Thu, 24 Aug 2023 23:30:00 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/a-lesson-from-the-woodsI have stories to learn and lessons to earn in the confines of my mind.
I’ll take the line and sort out the moss on the rotted logs as I jump across rivers flowing rapid down the white water canyons of time.
I’ll write the hymns humming in caverns like bearfoot whispers dancing in the moonlight.
I’ll sing it out loud until my voice turns gritty, harmonies sung through the branches of a barren tree yearning for cover under moonlit eyes.]]><![CDATA[The Hardest Lesson]]>Mon, 10 Jul 2023 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/the-hardest-lessonA free write exercise. July 10, 2023

Writing Prompt - He learned the hardest lesson of his life and had the scars, both physical and mental, to prove it.

It was the beginning of another week. Another day. Another month. He set out to make it be a different day then the last 273 days.

His mind had just begun wrapping itself around facts that haunted him for what felt like an eternity. Scars had developed behind his eyes so he saw them everywhere he looked. Not physical in nature but actual in their emotionality. What does that mean to him? What does it say? He wanders around the desert wanting water but he's carrying it all on his back. He could drink for days but he doesn't have a straw. He could walk out into the ocean but the salty sea would swallow him. He could wander down the path up the hill over the bluff onto the sand into the sun over the rocky pebbles of the wave battered beach.

He should whistle but his lips are dry from parched conversations in the moonlight. He draws his wrist out in front of him, looking at the veins as they pulse. He knows he's alive but he's yet to live again. He's learned the hardest lessons but can't move away or towards them. He's stuck. He's stationary. He's unwaveringly undecided. He's wilting under the heat of the moment that painted physical and mental scars on his body and his mind. He's wondering what he can do. He's wondering what he can say. He's pondering the meaning of those lessons that he learned 273 days ago.

12 minutes pass and he hasn't blinked. 11 more and he starts to whisper. 10 minutes drag him up onto his feet. 9 leaves fall from the tree in front of him. 8 times he stuck his foot out from off the curb yet put it back down without moving ahead. 7 meals he ate alone without taking a bite. 6 rolls of the dice before he saw the eyes of the snake. 5 fingers ran through his hair and he relaxed. Finally. 4 minutes passed before their stare was broken. 3 beers between the 2 and they became 1 again.

]]><![CDATA[I Am]]>Mon, 22 May 2023 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/i-amI am tired.
I am sore.
I am winded.
I’m spread out on the floor.
I’m scared.
I’ve fared.
I am wounded.
I’m sent out the door.
I’ve thought.
I’ve pondered.
I am whistling.
I’m going to the store.
To pick up some bread and milk and eggs.
It’s time for some French Toast.]]><![CDATA[Morning Writing Prompt - The Alphabet]]>Fri, 18 Mar 2022 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/morning-writing-prompt-the-alphabetSometimes using the alphabet as a literary crutch becomes an exercise worth doing. In this exercise I used every letter of the alphabet to create a short story in prose form. It's really difficult to get anything to work with the letter "X" as there were very few words I could think of in the moment that started with X. This always ends up being a fun exercise whenever I do it.

Anderson crept along the cliff edge
Bribing the seagulls to squawk
Careless his toe caught a stone and
Down the hill he dropped
Every moment passed by his eyes
Flashed in between the seconds
Gaining speed he began to panic
How am I going to make it?
Intertwined within the branches
Just beyond the cliff-wall’s edge
Kept his eye on a piece of rope
Length of which he couldn’t have said
Making a last ditch effort’s worth
Not having another chance
Out he reached to grab the rope
Praying he trusted his glance
Questions answered in one blink
Reaching one last time
Scorching hands to a halt
The moment he held the line
Under pressure he heard a crack above
Vicious burning in his hands
With an inch to spare it held him
“X-ray Tango Delta copy?”
“Yessir loud and clear”
“Zero chance to let this slide?”

#writingprompt #whatwordsstartwithx #alphabet

]]><![CDATA[Writer's Block [#7] - The Banister]]>Sun, 13 Mar 2022 16:23:18 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/writers-block-7-the-banister

In this episode of Writer's Block I tackle a couple of verses for a brand new song inspired by a childhood memory.

Took the railing
   in my hand
   Slid down
   to meet the ground
   Upon arrival
   the wood it split
   In my hand
   a splinter was found

   It took my breath
   outta my lungs
   Gasping
   for an inch of relief
   Wonder from the fall
   is what I found
   A jagged sword
or an olive branch wreath

In my Writer’s Block Series I talk about songwriting, what tools I use to get the lyrics right, how to break through writer's block, my inspirations for the songs I'm writing and you get to see it all as it’s happening in real time.
For more Videos in my Writer's Block Series:
🖋 http://bit.ly/WritersBlockPlaylist 🖋

]]><![CDATA[Winter Storm Warning]]>Fri, 28 Jan 2022 13:11:38 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/winter-storm-warningWinter storm impending inches
Gathered in the corner lot
Suddenly the track it changes
Staring down this little spot
Fixtures stuck in solid ground
Will soon be under foot
The snow will bury everything
The squirrels are really spooked

Their tails they flicker to and fro
Perched upon their branches
Seeking out some shelter
As they gather nuts in bunches
The finches dance and tweet aloud
Seeds within their beaks
Making sure their nests are sturdy
Ready for the sleet

The generator’s primed and ready
Humming drones sipping fuel
Steadfast waiting for the snowflakes
To get the message to the crew
It’s almost time to rev up engines
Hope the stations don’t run out
Get those plows ready to push
Uncover buried towns

Another warning came our way
This morning on the news
“We’re expecting 3-36 inches”
Said old Miss “Weathered” Sue
She’s predicted storms back in the past
That turned out to be nothing
We're not prepared if this comes true
So we’ll be eating stove top stuffing

That’s all we have beside some bread
PB&J and oats
We have some milk and eggs to boot
We could just make some toast
The storm’s a-coming it’s true said she
Old Miss “Weathered” Sue
Batten down the hatches
Get some candles, matches, soup

Winter warnings watches boots
Gloves and hats and coats that poof
The track it shifted once again
I think this really was a spoof
Come on over, the griddle’s hot
I think I’ll put on a fresh pot
At least we have enough supplies
To make French toast for sixty-five

"Winter Storm Warning" is a poem by Brian Theoret.
]]><![CDATA[Dusted with Sunbeams]]>Mon, 13 Dec 2021 12:21:41 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/dusted-with-sunbeamsThe pinks and purples and orange flares
Are something beheld with our eyes unfolded
The strings of pillowy clouds blanked in hues
Rising as if lifted from the ever warming sky
Dusted with sun beams rising from the horizon
The light slowly turns from pinks to subtle blues
Purples fade away as the sun begins it's rise for the day
She whispers hints of the coming winter
Soon it will fly, the snow will have its say
With satin white sprinkled boughs in the wind swept hallowed December
We'll soon hear her singing

I couldn't believe what I saw when I opened the curtains this morning. It was still dark throughout the house yet I could see light peeping through the curtains. The world was still waking up and the sky put on a beautiful display.]]><![CDATA[Was It Just a Dream?]]>Sat, 04 Dec 2021 13:59:15 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/was-it-just-a-dreamWeight of the world on my shoulders
Cliche as it may sound
I'm feeling the brunt of these boulders
As they push me into the ground
Their gritty kind of exterior
Made of dirt and petrified wood
Grinds deeply into my skin
Hardly stand up with all I could
Where are my support beams
Gleaming in the sun
Leaning against a road sign
Full of holes from a gun
A painted secant on the avenue
Telling us not to go
As the tumble weeds gather
And wander to and fro
A wasteland full of nothing
Void of thought and wonderment
Is it a dream or a nightmare
That haunts with detriment
Awake with a sweatiness
Burning in your pillow
Your breath can finally slow
After this fallowed night time sentiment]]><![CDATA[Morning Ritual]]>Thu, 18 Nov 2021 16:26:50 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/morning-ritualOne of my favorite parts of the morning is my morning coffee ritual.

I start off with freshly roasted beans from Vermont Coffee Company, specifically their Dark Roast. Their Dark Roast has always been a favorite of mine as it offers a rich, roasted, dark, almost burnt chocolatey intensity but it has a pleasant aroma and taste that isn't harsh as sometimes can be typical with some of the other dark roast coffees I have tried.

When I first open the air tight canister of beans, it's magical. You know they are fresh when they have a nice sheen on them. This is a greasy bean house. You know it's good when they're greasy. After that initial silent moment just after opening the canister, I have a quick reflection on what's about to happen. I gently pour the beans, offering themselves up to me when it's their time, into my coffee grinder. If my wife happens to be around when I'm doing this I shout out a nonchalant "Noise!" and hit the button. Suddenly the beans are dancing with each other, becoming a finer version of their former self.

After the joyous chaos of bean grinding is complete I fill the kettle with water and get my French press ready for our little morning party. Up to the mark and it's time to heat up the bath.

Amidst the heating of the water, it's time to measure out the heaping scoops. With my measuring spoon, I dive into the freshly ground goodness, filling my French press with just enough of the black gold dust.

Thirty-two ounces of water and six heaping spoonfuls is all it takes. No more. No less. Perfection...

Just coming off its boil, the water is ready to be poured, but I must wait. Thirty seconds to be exact. Slowly, in small circles I gently pour the hot water over the ground coffee beans, letting them breath as I go. Little bubbles come to the surface as I pour the scalding water, making sure to envelope every last bit of coffee in a warm embrace, up to the fill mark on my press. It's therapeutic watching something like this. The beans are going from solid form to liquid form. It's a satisfying feeling, taking a solid little bean and transforming it into something that gives off pure joy in the form of warmth, comfort and energy.

With a stir and the setting of a timer, I wait...

I get slight hints of burnt chocolate and raspberry in the air while I wait for my coffee to brew, pondering what I'm going to accomplish today. I gather my mug and half 'n half awaiting the moment where I can push the plunger down into the dark abyss, separating liquid from solid, completing the metamorphosis from one thing to another. Bean to brew. Cold to warm. Asleep to awake. Half to whole. From apart to together again. The cycle continues...

...and then I pour my first mug.]]><![CDATA[Autumn Leaves]]>Sat, 16 Oct 2021 15:25:41 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/autumn-leavesHere is a short, little snippet from today's Morning Pages.

I can see the leaves coming down like single tears down a cheek, the trees crying for the end of the season. Their branches laden with yellowing leaves, thirsty for their last drink of water before shriveling up and falling to the earth, nourishing the grass to protect the ground from the oncoming winter snow.

I'm constantly writing and sometimes little snippets like this appear and I oftentimes don't know where they belong. I've struggled with finding ways to document them all and to keep track of them all...until now!

I've had this blog for what feels like ages now and honestly haven't done a lot to keep it going. Now I'll be contributing to this more frequently. I'd love to have you along for the ride. Post your comments below. I'd love to hear from you.

Peace,
Brian

]]><![CDATA[We are They]]>Wed, 13 Jan 2021 02:13:44 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/we-are-theyThey grin.
They fly.
They scream.
They cry.
They whimper.
They grieve.
They sing.
They breath.

They go back and fix
The words they misspell
They sing to their heavens
For those that fell

They bring all their worries
To their churches with awe
They whisper to God
Their Buddha, their Krishna

They take all their worries
to the doctors with a sneeze
They lay down their swords
and fall to their knees

Who are they you ask
It's you, it's me
It's everyone here
It's this flower, this tree
It's the bee buzzing by
With pollen on her knees
The whisper in the wind
And the truth we all see

They grin.
They fly.
They scream.
They cry.
They whimper.
They grieve.
They sing.
They breath.

They sit down to pray
To shadow the ways
Those prior have taken
An oath and to say
Their intentions are near
All around 'em they sit
Stood up in the clear
To accept is it fit?

We grin.
We fly.
We scream.
We cry.
We whimper.
We grieve.
We sing.
We breath.
We grin.
We fly.
We scream.
We cry.
We whimper.
We grieve.
We sing.
We breath.

https://www.pexels.com/@belle-co-99483

]]><![CDATA[Wooden Bones]]>Tue, 11 Feb 2020 14:22:53 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/wooden-bonesNot sure if I'm remembering
It's been a while since
Can almost see the words exactly
If I give my eyes a squint
I was sitting in the sunlight
Out on an old park bench
I recall it on a t-shirt
All gray and faded and holy

It took a moment for eyes to focus
On what the words all meant
Could see them all so clearly now
No guessing what they said
My mind can see the picture now
Guitars and words and notes
It's not inside the wooden bones
Or from the neck of ebony tones
They come from somewhere else you see
The music's from up there in me

I'm sure now I'm remembering
It's been a while still
Can see the words exactly
Sitting on the window sill
Standing in the moonlight waiting
Binging on a phrase
I still remember that t-shirt
All gray and holy and faded

The ethos holds all the words
That could ever be
It holds the phrases, pickin' licks
For all our eyes to see
If your eyes are held-a-shut
Won't see what flies right by
The moment'll pass right by your face
Now you're just lookin' at the sky

It took a moment for eyes to focus
On what the words all meant
Could see them all so clearly now
No guessing what they said
My mind can see the picture now
Guitars and words and notes
It's not inside the wooden bones
Or from the neck of ebony tones
They come from somewhere else you see
The music's from up there in me

https://www.pexels.com/@stephendn

Here is song #2 from the 2020 RPM Challenge. That's 10 songs or 35 minutes of original material written and recorded during the month of February. The key here is to not wait for inspiration. If you wait for it, it'll never come...or rarely anyways. This has been a fun experience and at this point I have three songs either finished or nearly finished. I'd say it's been a success already.

Below you can listen to everything I've posted to the site thus far. Enjoy.

]]><![CDATA[Next Stop Harlem onto Grand Central]]>Fri, 30 Nov 2018 14:56:36 GMThttps://www.briantheoret.com/notes-in-the-sandbox/next-stop-harlem-onto-grand-centralThe tapping like the beat of a failing heart slows to a halt.
"Next Stop Westport!"
Jolting to a halt head dizzy from the shaking writing shaking stopping shaking breaking the silence along the tracks and then it's gone.
"Next Stop South Norwalk!"
Clicks and pops under feet. Giant trestles bend and give just a little under the weight.
"Next Stop Rowayton!"
New passengers every stop and old ones getting off. His accent different from the one before. A couple this time. Questions answers questions thoughts as the door between the cars opens with a sudden racket of the rails.
"Next Stop Darien!"
Financial chatter dinner talk reminiscing friendly walks internal dialogue drones on. The sun it draws closer to the water as lights come on in windows passing far and alarm bells ring when the doors shut closed.
"Next Stop Noroton Heights!"
Criss-crossing streets with headlights shining crossing under bridges below. Above the trees the daylight slows blowing clouds turning in for the night.
"Next Stop Stamford!"
Reflections in the windows bring scenes to life from both sides at once. Silhouettes dancing from right to left in the waning sky. The fading signs of graffiti look like dancing cave drawings in this light, dancing along our way to the city.
"Next Stop Greenwich!"
Incandescent lights light driveways overlooking train tracks, bridges, over passes under trestles.
"What time do we get into the city?"
Startled from my awakened slumber.
"Next Stop Harlem onto Grand Central"

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