The Polar Bear Express

The steel rails scrape by as a massive shuttle of people takes me North, inching closer to the Canadian shield. 

I leave the cemetery of burgundy chairs, unable to sit still.  I wander through the winding corridors, going from car to car on the enormous train.  I begin to run, knowing my destination: the top floor.  I climb the three-story, carpeted stairs to the room in which I will spend the entire trip. 

Fifties'-style booths and tables are pushed together in the top floor of the car.  The roof is split into three rectangles that look like the Canadian flag, two made of glass and one black block for support.  The glass wraps around the room and through it I see a stark beauty that changes every hour. 

Maple trees turn into pine trees, rivers turn into lakes, fields turn into mountains, green turns white.  And at night it changes even more.  The sun goes down and plunges us into mystery.

"What could be out there"? we wonder as we play cards in the lit car.

I press my nose up to the glass, searching for some indication of life, but I can't see anything past the pitch black glass.  The darkness frightens me, but at the same time excites me, lifts my spirit.  This train must look like a giant candle from outside, I think to myself.