The ground is covered with the crisp snow of January,
The wind howls its plaintive cries of winter.
The herd mill about in tight formation
Trying to stave off the cold.
Most lift their feet one at a time
As if to get brief respite from the icy tendrils;
Their flesh quivering to make blood rise
And warm their souls in the early morning darkness.
There is little communication between the members
As thought is too difficult on this cold winter’s day.
The breath of the herd forms an icy cloud above their heads,
That is quickly blown away to fall as snow in some far off land.
Their minds wander to that time so long ago,
When the sun shone brightly and the grass was green;
A time of plenty when they were warm and active.
The wind blows one icy blast, masking out all sound
Even that of their own heart beats.
With ice forming on their coats,
The herd huddles even closer,
More oblivious than ever to the world around them.
Suddenly, one of the herd lifts its head.
A whisper is faintly heard fighting against the breeze.
In response, more to their mate than to any sound,
The herd begins to waken.
The herd jostles as the sound changes
From a whisper to a call to a roar.
The herd becomes a living organism,
Changing from its dormant state to one of vitality.
As the sun peeks over the horizon, and life returns,
A clear call is heard by all:
“VIA train, eastbound for Toronto,
Now arriving on Track 2.”
Another workday begins for the people of Oakville.
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