Ode to the West

A journey is a story
It opens on a cast of characters
Baking under a dusty sun
Follows their arc like the shallow parabola
Of the old truss bridge right outside of town
And concludes with a sigh
Under the evening rains

The barbed-wire fences run 

Alongside the tracks for miles 

The wooden posts blending seamlessly 

Into the hills which tower 

Over the tracks like sentinels 

Slain, the watchers fall away
To reappear along the horizon
Folding over each other like
A child’s drawing, edges perfect
Curved unending into sky

Endless, spotless 

The heavens blend from gray 

To blue 

Dotted only by the dust 

Of a tractor, alone in the fields 

The silence of the pastoral world
Broken only by the whistle
Blown as a warning to wary
Cars, impatient in the heat

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The peace inside is just as fleeting 

While small feet scamper by 

Voices from the wall proclaim 

A stumbling narrative of artichokes and garlic 

Mingled with corrections and apologies 

They ignore the iron pistons
Drawing black liquid from the black soil
Which rise and fall in time
To music known only to them

Sleeping alongside these giants 

Are infinite rows of greenery

Arranged like the barcodes

Awaiting them on the shelves

First lettuce, then olives 

And the ever-present grape 

Growing where no grass ever could 

Soon the entire valley is full up
Food for a nation moist
– Leaves glistening in the slow-setting sun –
Covers the floor, mountain to mountain
Checkered by poverty and pickups

Nearing the first cluster of cities 

The cars race alongside the tracks 

Where once they were victorious 

Now they fall behind 

Through the windows
Orbs of light dot the horizon
Reflecting off the opposite side
Multiplying out to infinity

As the train trundles on 

The changing of the guard 

Families replaced by singles 

Spreading cream cheese 

On bageled substitutes for dinners missed 

Mount the bunk
Careful not to lose your head
Watch out for the one with the cape
Follow the swordsmen fleeing his mother
Lights out

 

With the morning comes

Vibrant greens and blues

The tracks float above the lake

As half-awake breakfasters munch

Before the orange juice
The plains spread out ahead
By the French toast, mountains
Slowly, then quickly
And then the ground falls away

Clinging desperately to earth

Surrounded by empty wilderness

Filled with sentinel pines

Small patches of children

Guarded by towering elders

Alternating tunnels and trestles
Wrap around the peaks
Each darkness brings new
Scenery and foliage
Dryer and darker

Descent, unnoticeable 

Brings crossings and lumberyards 

Playgrounds and backyards 

Too-short fences fail to hide 

Private lives scattered in the grass 

Rust mingles with water
Along rivers long marred by industry
Reclaiming stolen beachfront
One bolt, one rivet, one weld at a time

Islands herald the northern points 

Ships grow longer than trains 

And bridges multiply 

Another of countless valleys 

Familiar to settlers from ‘49 

The squeaking, which disappeared
One stop past home
Has surfaced as the train slows
Past spotted cows and fields

Clouds here are rich 

Thick, textured by breezes 

Off the sound – not bay – 

The southern blue speckles 

Amber-tinted grays 

Some clusters rise
Others finish their last beer
A final fact floats down the car
Houses replace fields
Telephone lines, pines

We follow one final curve 

Past the fishermen casting low 

The half empty parking lots 

Suburbs mixed with farms 

Before the drizzle coats the windows