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The constant whir of the battered silver horse
Meshes with the blur of stone and graffiti,
Intermittently interrupted by a cloak of black
Yet contained by the gentle rays of the evening Helios.
It falls softly on
Fervently working people
iPod addicted people
and observant people
all nestled into either burgundy or deep blue cradles of cracked leather.
Newspapers dot the rows like scarecrows,
But instead of protecting the crops they shield themselves from the crops,
Creating their own bubble, the edges annoying their unlucky seat partner.
Familiar buildings begin to rise out of the right side window,
Growing taller each minute,
Climbing over the vibrant, verdant trees which had shrouded them only moments before,
Silently reaching for the sky.
The silver horse, exhausted from its journey, heaves into the station,
pausing only for a moment,
at which time it releases its burden,
flinging open its doors as they spill out onto the platform.
I am one of them: the 5:24 from Harlem-125th.