The Dunes
A small parking lot sits next to tracks
where trains carry freight and fellows
away from the lakes and the woods,
towards the ever expanding distant city.
I am not on the train, nor following
the tracks, walking instead, between
tracks and trees, under the cackling
power lines. A symphony of both machine
and animal fills the fresh air, smelling
of water and sand, leaves and the faint
hint of train exhaust, mingling throughout.
The path curves, no more tracks or power
lines, a forest erupts around me, a deer
stops nibbling to watch with wary eye
this stranger to his domain, but my steps
carry me past the deer and further, further
through the trees, up the hills, towards
the scent of water, growing stronger,
past the ever changing horizon. The ground
grows soft, sandy, though the trees remain
dense as ever, until they remain no more,
disappeared, as if swallowed by something
unseen and unknown, replaced with mounds
of sand, like drifts of granular snow,
lapping waters making a pristine backdrop.
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