THE
SONG OF PASSING TRAINS
Before there was language
the dream invented itself again
and again
giving us the binding thread.
Each
night trains rumble and growl
down the Feather River Canyon
like
snorting bulls, or fiery dragons.
They
do not want taming, but a virgin lap will do.
Real
train lights, like moveable stars,
pulse through my dreams;
my
neighbor Sonny and Elvis are jammin’ after hours,
riding
the long groundswell and percussion of trains
to
the harmonica singing of wheels and tracks
resonating
like the mouths of finest crystal;
their
curved song reverberates off slate walls.
I
dream we clipped the talons of captive eagles,
showed
them to the children,
were responsible for their hunger,
the
talons making small, dark crescent moons on the floor.
Sometimes
the trains are like falling houses
coming
barreling down the tracks,
leaving
me alone with the eagles and children
(having
swallowed the abortant too late)
while
the men ride into the west making sweet music.
Too
much moonlight on the canyon walls.
It
begins with trout and bullfrogs punctuating the darkness.
Then,
the deep rumble and moan, thrum and pulse
and
the extraordinary singing of wheels—
as
if shy angels only practiced with each passing train.
The
river answers, slumbering gold in the deeper pools.
What
survives are the angry red eyes of trains
dragging
us into the well of night.
Each
train wails along the canyon walls
of
Las Plumas del Oro, stitching them like a shroud.
I
stand on the rivershore, the unceasing faith of tides
pulls
blood through my body, making love
to
the song of passing trains.
8/23/94
Twain,
CA
