Ten years ago, I became a commuter, one of the 3,000 federal employees who rises everyday before the sun to catch a train to Washington, DC, where most of us work. In the winter, we wait in the dark, listening for the whistle of the eastbound train and waiting for daylight to break over the Blue Ridge mountains. In the fall, geese race over the river that runs parallel to the tracks, with their wild screams and parade formations, and in the spring, when the light finally begins to arrive before we do, travelers who haven't spoken to one another through the dark months press against the railing separating track from river and speculate about the effect that melting ice and spring rain might have on the rising water level. You don't have to ride for long before you understand that flooding means the train doesn't go any further than the next station, where the tracks and the commuter parking lot are so close to the river that even a negligible imbalance between rain and shine can push the water over the rails and into your car or truck.
Some women bring needlepoint or knitting.
One guy never gets on in the evening without a six-pack and a deck of cards. On the return trip at night, the reverse is true. It happens about 50 minutes into the ride, after you cross the bridge over the first river. The foliage changes, the forest lining the tracks grows taller and denser, the traffic noises fade into animal sounds and the rhythms of water and wind. By the time we pass through the tunnel Irish railroad workers blew though a mountain at a place called Point of Rocks, the change is palpable.