The windows of the train are chalked with the stains of old rain. The sun shines, not unwelcome. It is winter in Denver land. And I am riding a lunchtime zig zag. A man full of brass and grocery.bags belts responses to his periodically tinkling phone. Hello. Why you hang up. What. You called me. Laughter. Fewer than ten souls ride in the car with me. All spaced like oranges concerned with breathing room and color. I go to the limit of my hour long leash, to return ugoods recently found to be unneeded. I can only assume a safe return, only hope for an uneventful trip. It is the unexpected that spices life, and the surplus of which poisons it. A bucket dipped in the well should not bring death, a stroll should not ellicit fear. My stop approaches. I am nearing some junction of choice and fate. Ever another twist of the knot.