The Eye of 1877

The Hoosac bares its teeth,

a hollow maw,

blackened breath and tunnel wind,

“1877” grins in frost.

An ancient epitaph etched neatly above,

one hundred ninety-five souls entombed within,

sorrow spools through stone and gloom.

“1877” marks the dead.

The tracks thread through leaves and goldenrod,

steel slicing through a silent wilderness,

a warmth still lingers on the rails,

like slow breaths weaving beneath iron ribs.

I step along the sleepers,

savoring the hush that pools

after the thunder has vanished,

as the wind brushes back through the trackbed.

The air is coated with creosote and damp leaves;

the scent bites, acrid and sharp,

and still I breathe it in deeper.

A raven croaks from a nearby crossbeam,

its black robe dragging.

Wind slips in like a whisper,

shuffling leaves along the gravel.

I let the silence settle like fallen cinders,

while the tunnel’s jaw

loomed open but never called.

There is grace in the way the stone parts

grudgingly

for steel and steam.

The mountain lets the engines burrow through its heart.

Then…

far off and folding through the hills:

a low, bone-hollow wail,

the ghost-note of a freight

hauling absence east

a wild sound trapped in steel, wailing against the dark.

I used to believe the tunnel could breathe:

in soot, and out song

old engines humming deep as a hymn.

Sometimes I still hear them

moaning in their sleep,

calling out to me.

Now, when I recall it,

it’s not the echo nor the song that lingers,

but the stillness after the sound has faded.

Along the rails,

a shadow drifts ahead,

a figure, black as the soot that stains the stone

it shifts and shimmers,

like light shining on fractured glass,

silvered edges catching the fleeting sun,

I stand and watch the figure fade

beyond the bend and into the fog.

The lone raven watches

from its iron throne,

eyes a mirror

of what has come and gone.

Watching.

Perched upon the crossbeams.