Four Burlington Northerns,
shiny new from the factory doors,
galloping past us and our little fire,
making quiche on a Sunday afternoon.
We didn't rise until one,
moving slowly, as if drugged,
high on too much sleep.
Chopped potatoes with half-opened eyes,
mixed eggs and mushrooms,
sage, cumin, parsley, basil.
Settled down in our camping chairs,
waiting for the potatoes to soften,
adding the egg batter and a top layer of cheese.
More waiting.
Another train: Union Pacific this time,
going the other direction.
More waiting.
We time our cooking by the railway.
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