Victor, Colorado

the old railroad grades were scars
remembered by the mountain
busier days in hues of silver
and gold

like scabs, the rails were peeled away
and the wooden ties rotted
under the ever-changing heavens

we drove past them
seeking stories with our eyes
sepia-toned memories
settled into the landscape
my brain full of steam and smoke
my ears full of whistle-shrieks
through my fingers
a faint rumble
steel wheels, click-clack

blink once
twice
and the old grades were scars again