Passage

The old trestle seemed to go on
for miles. Steve and I crossed it
a few times one summer, his long

legs moving him quicker, his feet
surer than mine. I suspected
the platform, side-stepped cracks

and gingerly avoided sunlit gaps:
it was more than a hundred feet
to the road that ran between

the fields. I looked over, leaning
easily on the guardrail, watched
the birds fly under me.

One day Steve had a better head
start and got too small. I turned
back, knowing I'd never catch up.

A train was coming and I heard
the tall trestle squeal and shake.
Steve's face turned when he felt

the wheels, and I watched him angle
toward the rail. He looked over his
shoulder, saw the engine bearing down:

a black face that laughed through
the air between mountains, trusted
ancient ironwork would give it wings.

That smoking dragon clapped his back
with a scream as it passed; wind
shoved him, but he kept his pace.

When I met him in town he laughed
and had the better of me. He was sure
the trestle would pitch him over,

how it swayed from side to side
and groaned as if its back
would break. I'd never been on it

when a train came and I knew
I wouldn't be, ever. Birds look
stronger and faster flying overhead.