The Valley Chronicle - “Hot Rails”ng

■ By Rob Lindquist / Contributed Out of some nonexistent past, Perhaps the creosote, Heated by a desert sun, Circling in wind devils. Off railroad ties, Half buried in the sand. Out on the desert, The rusty rails Creak and ping. A high sun raises up noises From another time; Sounds of worn and Polished rims of endless Wheels that bucked and chucked Through the Joshua trees, Banged over stumpy bridges Across white sand river beds: Wheels of iron Rolling east and west, Clicking loudly over the joints, Shaking the mountains, Waking slinky day-sleepers Under red rocks; Walking old spikes out of black wood. And they talk to each other, the rails, Speaking of the heavy load And the work of standing firm In the heat of a desert summer. Can you see it? Can you hear The deep throated call Of its steam whistle? Steam on, move those beams, Flex those massive elbows; Push pistons, push! Move all that hot iron. Engineer, give me your tin cup, Hanging on a loop From the boiler gauge! I need your black old coffee. It’s hot thinking about all this! Bums! Can’t you see ‘em now? Come through Blythe Out of Hoboville; Standing at the doors Of empty boxcars, Bold and slack, Hot and ready to do Any sorta work; “Goin’ to California Where they sleep out ev’ry night.” Old Baldwin, big job; Got more’n a dozen drivers. Push on, you mountain of metal, You memory! Sweat and fire, smoke, steam, work! And cry, with me, you great, Marvelous black machine. Wake up the coyotes, Crack those rails and split the white hot desert With your lonesome sound.