Crossing Wales

Facing backwards on the train like a waxing moon, hidden wheel of my belly a little wobbly, I watch the hills pile up, blueing as the gulf between us grows. Who knows when or if I’ll pass this way again? And then I focus on the close-at-hand, & realize all this time I’ve been staring straight through the reflection of a girl who faces forward, pale & attentive, hair the color of autumn fields. We slow down. The intercom crackles. A station platform assembles itself around us & stops, & the doors slide open. What place is this whose name requires two clearings of the throat?