The graffiti strips away somewhere after San Antonio, the Spanish moss, the puddles, even the cotton bulbs of the clouds becomes a striated mess. White tufts turn to low grey strands as the earth breaks into rock and spiky yucca plants. These places have no people, haven’t had people since the tracks first went down. Anxiety isn’t a concept entertained. Journals document species, land, weather patterns instead of adolescent urges, drug use and material issue. The train rolls and whistles and the land looks on without care. The water will fall, the water will stop falling, the water will striate more clouds.
by Hank Cherry
