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Until high school, I walked to school every day:
A block and a half to stairs leading to the Southern
Railway right-of-way.
I crossed one track, walking along the other for a short
distance,
Facing the usual direction of oncoming traffic.
Leaving the rails behind, I descended to a bridge
over the canal that paralleled the railroad
Before following the sidewalks that led to my school.
I never saw a freight train in the morning,
But a train sometimes blocked my way going home in the
afternoon.
Other kids dashed across the track ahead of an
approaching train
Or ducked under a car or couplers between stopped cars.
I waited patiently, standing on the ballast and reading
reporting marks on the railcars.
In the morning, if I were early (or maybe if I were
late),
I would have to wait for the limited to pass on the
northbound track.
As it passed the semaphore a hundred yards or so ahead,
The signal’s blade moved from vertical to horizontal,
And the aspect changed from green to red.
One day, the limited approached faster than I
anticipated,
Rapidly gaining speed from its downtown terminal.
I was caught just a few feet from the track on the edge
of the embankment.
The green and white locomotive with its gold trim roared
past,
Followed by coaches whose stainless-steel fluted sides
reflected the morning sun.
I was buffeted by wind and noise as wheels rolled across
the rail joints.
I could have reached out and touched the train,
And was scared that I was close enough to do that.
In an instant, the observation car, with its lighted
green and white drum, flashed by,
The end of the train disappearing past the semaphore
announcing an occupied block ahead.
I crossed both tracks and the bridge over the canal as
usual
But was forever changed.
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