Journeying, we journeyed out while bamboo wrists of steel diminished until our figures grew in contrast: men sat stout on the steaming engine, the rotund rear cabin all aglow, the eyes of newsisters, newmother, too, burning out like nervous light bulbs.
i did not say good-bye to city-home, or apartment-home, or window-home or my stern beloved nanny-face. Instead, only sat, stout and staring, wondering at this new turn: an unpaved road worn down between tall, sharp-bladed grasses, a sky bright with brighter clouds than my pale i could stand, scurrying creatures scurrying away from heavy carriage wheels and the whistled song of my father, happy, the reins wrapped round his wrinkled hands.
