a low, lonesome sound.

There’s a whistle.
Wind rustles the dried wake of foliage remaining from warmer, more prosperous days. Brighter days. The moors would moan with the sound, if it were 100 years earlier – but it isn’t, and those cobbled buildings have long since sold their souls and become ruins run dry for profit. Human nature has not much changed. Value comes not in bushels of ballastones or bottled ounces, but those are tangible things. One could not put their hands around a promise, not even a century ago. Even so. If not in 100, certainly it has not changed in the last year which was heavy enough to cripple the strongest, most steadfast men, let alone a single, bleeding-hearted girl.
Then a clacking.
Rhythmic thrumming pulses the evening at a distance – a low, lonesome sound, close enough to ache but far enough to not be reached. Box cars beat behind withered ever greens living in a perpetual limbo between a procrastinating winter and a never-ending autumn. Time loses its own faculty and function here, being only an extension of the tracks. A man-made element. A retired governor from shorter, more focused days. Meaningful days. Even the railroad ties may groan wearily at dusk for the notion of another day departed, if it were 100 years earlier – but it isn’t. Even so. If it were, that train may have a purpose – but it doesn’t.
There’s only a whistle.

4 thoughts on “a low, lonesome sound.

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