Train Trip Notes
Stack of boxcars, four or five high, ten wide. An abandoned brick warehouse with broken windows, lit inside by afternoon light. Marsh full of tall golden grasses. Rusty 50s truck, windshield smashed in. Blue sky with stripes of dark cloud. Sunlight reflected from train windows onto grass.
We pull into a station. "This is New York City," a mother tells her two children, reverently. "It doesn't look like it," says her little boy.
Artists' studios for rent in a warehouse outside Providence.
At Old Saybrook, a graveyard across the tracks. A cross made of pebbles with a larger stone on top. Dark blue ocean, light yellow grass. A swan makes its way through a harbor, unhurried. Black tree ridgeline against a pink and orange sky.
Orange letters on a dark bridge: Trenton Makes The World Takes. Then the Philadelphia skyline. Liberty One means almost home.
We pull into a station. "This is New York City," a mother tells her two children, reverently. "It doesn't look like it," says her little boy.
Artists' studios for rent in a warehouse outside Providence.
At Old Saybrook, a graveyard across the tracks. A cross made of pebbles with a larger stone on top. Dark blue ocean, light yellow grass. A swan makes its way through a harbor, unhurried. Black tree ridgeline against a pink and orange sky.
Orange letters on a dark bridge: Trenton Makes The World Takes. Then the Philadelphia skyline. Liberty One means almost home.
posted by Elizabeth Thorpe at 3:25 PM
1 Comments:
Reading this, remembering melancholy train rides from Portland to Whitefish Montana. Such youth. Such up and go mobility.
I can't wait for my road trip to Port Townsend this summer, finding you and Matt there. I have reserved a beach-side campground, In praise of windblown simplicity. In praise of Gore Tex.
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