by J.R. Solonche

The crossing-gates
went first,
and with them
the flashing red signal lights.

Then the tracks,
after a century
bolted to the earth,
were gone.

And the oak ties,
black as soot,
were taken,
and the spikes

like rusted carrots
disappeared,
pulled up,
harvested for scrap.

Finally, the air
left town,
heavy with a
hundred years of bells.

Photo by Robert Noreiko on Unsplash