What Is The Chance Of That

Railroad cars clink and grind into the dark while the singer counts them, imagining herself leaping through an open boxcar door. That image of a train — its lonesome whistle, its fixed track, its promise of leaving without looking back — anchors a song that keeps asking its title question like a refrain of wonder. She traces her restlessness to a childhood conviction that cause and effect governed everything, only to watch pain and hard times arrive and depart as randomly as a blindfolded angel playing eeny meeny miny moe. Later the same image of testing turns toward faith: hardship becomes something that purifies weak belief into gold. Between those two confessions she wonders whether a nomad runs in her family tree, and lands on a quieter certainty — that the journey is both hard and sweet, and that what she went searching for may already have been hers. The repeated question never resolves into an answer, which is the point; it stays open, half invitation and half surrender, as the train keeps moving and the door stays open.