Idling

An engine idles in the loop.

Until I checked my cycle route,
I didn’t know the loop was there.

As kids, we just knew the engines idled on the bridge,
a stone’s throw from the water where we fished.

They’re more impressive now.
Smooth. Quiet. This one’s a 66.

I watched it power into view,
heading south on the embankment.

A second engine, moving south to north, crossed it,
accelerating down the straight.

The wagons formed a pattern,
sliding past each other, flickering
like frames of celluloid against the sun.

Our adolescent locos were of different stock.
Harsh, rasping. Lumbering like oxen.

I notice in the corner of my eye,
the cracked and broken skin across my hands.