-
- Fog filled morning
sticking below the limp tree line
-
- Stepping down
smacked by hot humid vapor reluctant to move
reluctant to become air
sulking under the red ball
of the rising sun.
-
- Looking around
a landscape stuck
stu-uh-uck
in red clay.
-
- Smelling
nostrils gritty with acrid smoke
belching cinders
from the mass of lugging chugging Iron
smothering
the odor of pine needles and wet clay.
-
- Hearing
"A-a-a-11 aboa-r-r-r-d"
The steam whistle blasts the day apart.
High pitched clangs, bangs of metal bolts,
greasy chains and hitches clank together
... an awkward lurch.
-
- Watching
steely wheels turn
grinding, straining
grasping friction
tearing apart gravity
... pulls forward
-
- Tracking
to Georgianna.
-
|
