Freight

The murmuration of blackbirds 
drawing sideways figure eights, ragged 

infinity symbols, drains the sky 
early. I go to bed too soon. 

Tree sap rising is a long ways off. 
So is dawn when I wake at 3 a.m. 

to the whine and clatter of a train 
out in the valley—air so clear and cold 

the sound travels miles. I try counting 
railcars, most empty, like sheep. 

In one briefly lit coach window
a kiss outside a coffee shop 

miles and years away. I didn’t know 
then it meant parting.

Each porthole in the procession 
frames a face once cherished, carloads 

of goodbyes never said or intended. 
I want to uncouple them on a sidetrack 

in Nevada, on a snow-swept 
plateau where frosted sage shivers 

in thin breeze. Is that the only 
resolution of over to be mustered?

Abandon my hobo past in high desert 
blown with drifts? Where shadows 

of juniper ripening at first light 
offer a kind of forgiveness.

JOANNE ALLRED

Joanne Allred is the author of three full-length poetry collections: Particulate (Bear Star Press), The Evolutionary Purpose of Heartbreak (Turning Point Press), and Outside Paradise (Word Poetry Press)). “Freight” is part of a new book, Friends, You Drank the Darkness, forthcoming in June 2026 from Moon Path Press. She lives in Northern California.