The Friday Night Express

Thunder in Evington

It was that quiet time of day, when the birds decide to hang it up and the coffee wears off.

Suddenly, everything is done and empty, as the clouds turn the color of the ice cream I’d eat when I was four, and the bustle of the week seems about as far out to sea as that time.

(Gone.)

Friday in the country, at the earliest hint of evening. Emptiness springs up and shakes you by the shoulders.

Hey buddy, whatcha thinkin’?

My car rolled down, up, down around the hairpin, past a white church now in twilight, and a view of the mountains, distant in golden sun.

Down, down, up, around, down again into…a piney silence.

The railroad tracks sat vacant, staring, echoing with…nothing.

I’d never seen anything on this line.

And then, the red lights leapt to life, dancing to a bell.

Train a-comin’.

My lucky day!

I could have beat the gates, but I pressed the brakes, and jumped out to look.

An elephantine trumpet, the rails sang like crickets, and thar she blows.

The big black horses galloped down the steel with a grind and a roar, yellow flatcars loaded with containers from China smiling with a Prime grin.

(Where do you think your Amazon stuff comes from?)

Wheels high-fived the crossing joints, like gladiators or football players or anyone impossibly strong, fist-bumping with a cool attitude as the peasants watch.

“Yeah man, get it done.”

A mile of merchandise, hustling under the ice cream sky, southbound.

The last car blazed by, and a glaring red light brought up the rear.

Blink

Blink.

And the show was over.

The rails, empty again, waited.

I got back in my car, and finished driving home.