Beyond the window, rails divide the darkness,
then meet where stone gives passage to the stream.
The mountain wears the last of winter loosely;
a lamp moves nearer through the seam.

I lay the chart beside the lantern.
Its lines are not the journey they describe.
A mark can promise passage through a valley;
the bridge must bear the weight that will arrive.

The levers wait, their handles quiet.
The room holds warmth against the cold.
No train comes faster for a signal.
The clear track matters more than being told.

Below the arch, the thaw collects in hollows.
It carries daylight out of sight.
The river does not ask which carriage follows;
it keeps another timetable tonight.

I leave a space between the departure
and what has not yet reached the door.
Not emptiness, but room for wheels and weather,
for work that needs the track it waited for.

The lamp advances. Windows gather silver.
The points lie true beneath the rain.
A choice becomes a path only through matter:
wood, stone, and steel receiving weight.

I turn the page when passage is completed,
not when a light claims the hill.
The bridge stays dark. The water travels onward.