The Railroad Died Here
BY Travis Truax
The railroad died here in the yellow land
of grass and distance. The sky swallowed
waving brakemen over each rise
like something dropped in water. At the depots
passengers used to write home saying
they missed the old farm and grandpa
but the land was kind enough to remember
most things forever. Wagon ruts
cut across Nebraska mean: someone
has made it this far, someone’s moving
against odds with hope, and someone’s heart
is less heavy because of that river.
Where it braids across the prairie
luck lives and dies. West is the direction of loss.
Opportunity is three mountain ranges away.
Getting there is a trek of patience and pain.
The voices out here begin as storm clouds.
They end in the silence between coyote howls.
The world this land holds doesn’t
rust, wear, or smear. The sky is an open hand
full of blue flowers. Days are ceremonies
of progress and time. The plowed land
cracks like a father’s smile and floods like love
when the distant rains come.