A Rural Station

A former place this, a patch where roots rattle, where stubble has a ferrous frizzle. A long truncated railroad stop humming still within a surrogate reality. As dry voices on the wind, they return - the homesteaders and journeymen, the harnessed horses. Pants' cuffs carry kernels long planted elsewhere. Caps, coats, and carts employed again by the magnetic echos of an iron labor. The brown weeds are talkative. Brown boots seem to shuffle. A hollow clock clacks, its guts a nest for ticking birds. Dandelions anticipate a faraway flight, A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails. The station seems almost ready to receive as if its world had not disembarked forever.