The Whistle Stop

Trains, tracks, and passing through life's phases.

Down a small and straight tree-lined street, next to the train tracks, there is a small town with a great little butcher shop. I park under the old-growth trees and look up at the sun streaming through their greenery. A still photograph of the scene would convey the very picture of summer, but the leaves rustle with a cool whisper of encroaching fall.

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