You’ll hear it, long before you feel it, feel it long before you see it.
The train whistle is a glorious shriek, full of choral bass and tremble, Something that startles your skin— an unexpected scream from a well-known space.
Train steam splits the sky, its wheels sunder the earth.
The water in its way parts, a Moses hand creating safe passage for the travelers inside, walls of creation forming on the right, destruction un-forming it on the left.
The wheels flatten nickels to silver— ploughshares to swords.
Those standing close to the tracks, will hide from this shrieking cinder, unsure of what it will do, this beast that rides on rails without beginning or end, that forces one to put ear to track to know its approaching.
The train only knows time in miles not minutes. the slipping of iron on iron into both the day and night.
It knows its belly must be fire— melting the frost all around, mean and nothing else.
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