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Read Between the Tracks
My grandfather led me to the trestle
where the trains crossed the creek
on suspended tracks.
Red-capped hunters, I imagine,
left their shotgun-shells to decompose
on the black-tarred wood
and in the brush surrounding.
“The shell leaves the barrel,” he said,
“and releases pellets that spread the skin.”
Ten years later the skin has stretched,
my tribe scales the same tracks
in search of hunters, graves, and gatherers.
A new age of discovery
on the tips of our tongues.
John wants to know if we’re there yet,
the site for our ritual,
the line where wisdom is crossed
and my mind’s aware of the Being of things,
green outlined in black.
We make it to the trestle
above the creek,
continuing its course,
animals concealed by sticks
crack them
in the foliage void.
My tribe stations itself on the bridge,
scanning the cracks and holes,
the canopy of leaves above.
Waiting. . . waiting for what?
A train to dissect the silence?
Or a voice, grand and fatherly,
to give compass to the kids gathered here.
Phil pulls out a beer,
drinks it, and
throws it over the bridge.
It spins as it falls
and we fall down spinning
until it smashes.
An army of green glass has assembled
on the rocks below.
Dan is fifty yards away
playing with imaginary trains
that have skipped the track.
-By Jeremy Daniel
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