For The Postcards

The cross country trains meet a speed of 125mph.
To us, that means the houses and trees we pass,
the ones up close, are obliterated and spent
as fast as a blink. The shrub, for instance, only a green blur,
quickly smeared from one side of the window frame to the other.

You have to hand it to the mountains, though,
to the range of snowy pine still on the incline,
the rocky monuments gilded by a drooping sun.
They slowly pass, exercising the distance
between us and them, calm and quiet,
poised for the postcards.

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