the horn of the Santa Fe Chief
lingers in the crisp air,
an audio phonic pastel
gently clacking on the long, black rails
on Fourth Street
the snow has graduated from its innocence
into a demon of salted sludge;
shotgun houses, rimmed with iron wrought flowers
circumventing shallow stepped porches
and aluminum armored doors,
line the street on both sides;
outcroppings of old stumps in a cleared field
gray splattered doves
an orchestration of soft sighs
huddle along the base of bared trees
as if sculpted on the exposed roots
two rows of fogged cars
silver trails of melted snow on their windshields
their exhausts choking on the brittle cold
wait as the stripped-armed wooden sentry
adorned with flashing helmet
deliberately exercises the duties of its office
at the intersection
icicles rattle on broken pavement
shaken by the movement of grain cars
clicking in cadence
as they pass the guarded crossing
vapors rise from the nostrils of the cars,
some snorting impatiently
the clatter fades like a dying wind
into a faint whisper
the sentry stiffly salutes
allowing the procession
of glazed, glistening vehicles
to move forward,
they seem to stretch before rising
and entering the asphalt convergence
the coos of the doves
supplants the prattle of the boxcars;
a change of paintings on a wall
a bundled man turns onto the street
walking a red dog on a green leash
both puffing bursts of vapor
their feet disturbing the encrusted walk.
