Train

The muted whistle of distant summer trains makes belief that I knew life at the turn of the century. Seemingly untouched by the magic wand of progress, its tracks still shine like oil soaked platinum. Years and wars are to it as palms would shrug ocean wrath.

Always present, the tracks mark, as track marks, soft landscapes hidden from view.

The majestic passing of its cars is half-enchantment, half-vacuum, and I am nervous for my lack of current pace and fragile momentum. I am nervous despite the polka-dotted ladybug topping my thumb, as warm air spits up dust and small stones and draws me forward.