My gut knows when I am headed west.
The diamond lots of suburbia give way
to charming wooden footbridges over brooks,
birch stands, scattered evergreens and
fields, endlessly reaching for spring’s thaw.
The roads are inefficient here, meandering,
crossing in diagonals and looping around.
Tractors and hooves preceded them,
unforgivingly beating the land, carving it out;
the brook of progress.
We pass long trains, still hauling their goods,
your goods. Littered beside the tracks,
fallen comrades: steel and ties.
The train cars are all marked by manufacturers,
and graffiti from endless cities.
The engines breathe the fire of the ornamental
stallions, soldered to their noses.