36 degrees farenheit with snowfall and limited visibility

like birds waking one by one in the morning, singing before they can feed, women call and croon to their children or lovers once they are settled in their seats:

i’ll see you soon.
i can’t wait to see you.
honey.

then their voices clamp shut, pass the time, until another call to check in might make them burst into song:
where are you?
i think it’ll arrive on time.
where will i find you in the station?
just sounds, bodies with poor posture sprawled somewhere in a seat identical to mine, stained but comfortable. if i could see them i’d cup their face in my right hand and smile.
there are also women who are silent, no lovebird to share their branch. they might even command their own tree. can’t locate the quiet ones, their presence seeps out and forms a current of air around them, emerging storm systems.

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