Skunk Line

(A Blank Verse Sonnet) Her bell rings out with blast of horn, her wheels scrape iron, her engines groan, her cars hold back, caboose hangs on and baggage shifts 'round loop to loop and up to mountain peak. Her trail snakes past Alpine and Pudding Creek to wind thru pasture and deep woods. Her lonesome wail sounds forth across a land of yesteryear. They could have named her Tin Lizzie or Goose Yet dubbed her Skunk because, as one has said, Her smell precedes your view. And still today she claims the name. We gaze at deer who drink at river's edge and scrape the bark from trees. We cringe and gasp in tunnels long and dark. The vintage train gives all, chugs up and up.