Train Stop

11:27 pm.  Driving down a darkened ribbon of a road, I see the train crossing warnings light up red, then the crossbars drop.

Shoot!  Traveling over that track is the way home, and it can only be a freight train at this hour.  It’s creepy approaching, with no cars around, darkened windows in homes and offices. I half-expect to see some illicit affair in an office window but all appear barren.

For 6 minutes, I watch the empty skeletons of open train cars, and I wonder what they are used to transport.  There are other cars too, but mainly the skeletons,  through which I can see the budding trees and a car pull up going the other direction.  The train sounds soothing as it quickly moves by, a gentle, repeated click-clack again and again. I could sleep now, but I have to move on when the train moves northward.

A single car pulls up behind me, glaring lights jarring me from my respite.  If I had to escape, where would I head?  A  vacant building?  Through the train car?  Atop a tree?   If someone approached my car, there would be no where to go–people on the other side of the tracks voyeurs but unable to help.

11:34.  The last train whistles by, the flashing crossbars rise, and I continue home, untouched.  C

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