The signs told me it was trespass and the adults of my childhood warned me it was dangerous
and to play so close to the line could leave me mute and helpless.
But I love to lie face down on the dirt, with my cheek pressed into the feathery moss and wait for the first tremors of earth. The shudder tells me that the train is coming.
And the smell of wet soil and the coil of little fern tendrils make me feel as if
this stretch of the railway track is my place.
And every time I jump the fence and press my body down so close to the thunder
of the wheels, I forget the signs that warn of death because I feel so alive
and the dust itches my eyes, and the breath is snatched away from underneath my sternum.
When the last train of the evening has passed beyond my hearing, and faded away into the darkness and long silence, I am still. And still face down on the dirty track, waiting for nothing more ever again.