The trail narrowed
ahead and behind
in twin stretches of rain blacked dirt,
grass split, and trees, rising to walls
to seat the gray afternoon sky.
The air reeks of slow river and
hints of Winter fall still not overtaken
by sprig. The air, in that way,
fits, comforting, inside my chest,
deferring the hurt Summer will
lay across my skin
in due time.
Running on that trail,
dull brown railroad ties
passing beneath my feet
like minutes through my time,
I am feet away from a freight train
on the rails beside my own.
He heaves into motion,
the serial metal thunderclap clack of
six dozen solid steel couplings
coming taut, the engine so far down the tracks
I cannot see, bangs inside my teeth so hard
I lose my cadence. He rolls,
gaining speed
but never more than me.
To see the thing go,
to touch the railcar's wheels and feel
the heat as they spin,
trotting beside with my ear to his body,
to hear the heart beat of the engine so clearly,
to feel the vibration
inside my head, so far away, is stupefying.
Running on that trail
between empty tracks and
beside tracks filled and hulking,
I see headlights and skip between and
for the next twenty minutes I am
between death, stupidity, and awe;
a maelstrom of rain soaked nature and metal,
trapped by choice and freed by noise
between passing freight trains
somewhere on the north shore of Pittsburgh,
breathless, and at home.
