Last Stop, Elba

There she stood; rather sat , in the grass at the base of the Mountain. Still straddling the old iron rails that held for so long, years since operation are obvious, and broad stripes of rust traverse her round-black face. Something tugs, and something pulls; a longing to move, a longing to breathe again. A deep seeded need to feel the fire burning, get the gears grinding and the wheels turning. Oh she waits too long, still expecting the fireman to bring the coal; she stays her post waiting for the next day of work that will never come. She's waiting for that honeydew morning , when she once again can roar through the hills. The lion of the mountain silenced into an aging lamb, for time is unforgiving. I sense a déjà vu, like I've been here before. Longing to move, longing to scream, hiss, whistle, buckle, crank, and turn. All I can do is stare , until the sun sets and it is time to go. As I enter my car to drive back to the city, I look back at my new friend. Now standing tall, a proud monument of times long past. The days come and go, the cars along the road come and go, the visitors to the railroad come and go, but here she stays, the permanent resident.