I live on the edge of a transit , a great migration of steel, and of dairy and of grain.

Of richly scented stock and indecipherable machinery , of loaves of bread and of trunks of pine.

Sometimes it rumbles and sometimes it roars, occasionally it slumbers or hides in the wind.

The nation’s artery pumping the fat of the land , some to the city , more to distant shores.

And I lie in my bed stationary but alert to the great migration outside, the sound of 5 million lives.