Train Ride

On the train from Dresden to Prague. We follow the Elbe between ridges speckled with high-peaked homes. Two sheep barely notice me pass, but I will remember their calm meditation at the base of a river-tree; maybe forever. They do not know the beauty of this place, they are it.
Roof tiles darken and plaster crumbs float away with the wind. Roots reclaim foundations as the old fisherman's cottage sighs its concession and stops waiting for his return. He has long since returned to the water and soil.
The antiquity here is startling. It forces an awareness of one's legacy. What will I leave? What will wait for my return? What will curse my having come at all? In a place where the lives of the long past are the very bones of daily life, it is harder to maintain the illusion of transience.