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train tracks

I walk up to the train tracks. It is daylight, but the sun is behind the clouds. The whole sky is a blue-grey. The grass in the field is brown. It feels like straw. It scrapes my ankles when I walk through it.

I walk on to the rocks that surround the tracks. It is hard to walk on them. My feet keep slipping.

I look up. There are trees on the horizon. They don't look real. They look too small to be real. They look like toys.

I look at the train tracks. The wooden rails are wet, even though it hasn't rained for days. I step over onto one of the rails. I start to walk down the tracks on the rail, like it is a balance beam. I quickly lose balance and fall.

I look at the condition of the wooden rail. The edges are no longer sharp and sturdy: they are worn and soft. I see a pill bug crawling out from a crevasse in one of the rails. I choose not to get back up on the rail and try to balance. I walk along the side.

The wind picks up. I don't feel like buttoning up my coat, so I overlap the edges around my waist and hold them down. I feel the wind and hear it hiss as it hits my ear and curls around. I realize that this is the only sound I have heard there.

I look at the slats between the rails. They look like they are about to fall apart. I can't fathom that these tracks would be able to support a train. But then again, I don't remember the last time I saw a train on these tracks.

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