This Train is Bound for Glory
I live by a train across the tracks in a house I always miss. It is green and the lawn is green and the tree that cuts the lot is green. So the house is hard to make out. Along the sidewalk there is a box garden whose tallest plants are weeds. These I’ve learned to look for, like lighthouses.
The train rolls through every quarter hour. First the gates clang caution and blink orangely. Then the strident Doppler drone in crescendo until it passes too and whimpers down. Then crickets and crickets.
During the day, the traffic drowns the railroad noise. So I can only hear the train at night, when I’m trying to sleep. It bothered me at first because I am a “light sleeper,” but now it makes me feel historical. As if I was in the boonies and the train was the only thing coming or going. My name could be Clementine Belle Farmer and Willa Cather would write about me.
