skipping tracks of territory

Behind the box drab rowhouses, the stoplights and straight streets, a road winds down beneath the bridge. taken back by nature, kudzu and trees covering the hillsides and we're not in the city anymore. some kids sit howling on the crumbling steps, a last bastion of civilized life. and down, past the graffiti and gates, down to the tracks were minutes before a train went screaming by. it is dark except for distant streetlamps on the busway, and the fireflies swarming in the green, innumerable fairies or magic lanterns hung. soon you can hear movement, people, vagabonds and outlaws sitting on the tracks, tuning up instruments, sharing the stories of the day and a jug of whisky while swatting off mesquitos and slight paranoia of getting caught, dogs running around sniffing everything and even a family with a stroller. soon one of them begins to sing to the clapping of hands, an old timey folk balad sound with yum diddly ayes and sweet warble and wrapping back time to the contents of this modern life. and guitars, and the hoedown; bass, banjo, fiddle, spoons, mouthharp, harmonies and hallelujahs in their natural environment, and the lightning coming in fast. the kids getting drunk on moments of freedom, in forgotten spaces of true autonomy, we did this together, singing to the one still star and the wide open night where anything's possible. and the wind picks up as the music continues and the baby's started to fall asleep.

"Train!" someone yells, and with that the tracks are cleared, everyone diving into the bushes while one drunk stands defiant against the onrushing light, only to be pulled off quick but still reach out and slap the train as it passes, the expectation of loud roaring thunder and cheers. but it stops. uncertain moments. and everyone takes off running, diving up through the brambles, back towards the tunnel, ahead, afraid, have they already called the cops? walking past the conductor steps out, more concerned than angry, "is everyone okay? i thought i heard something hit." "we're fine, and all accounted for." laughing and running. "what happened?" "nothing, nothing, sorry to stop your schedule, but we're going now." punks running off into the night, and onboard the passengers look around in confusion. one of them, older and tattooed, sees our stream of unruly and begins making cheering fists and signs of success, as if our interruption saved him from the monotony of the journey. as if he'd rather be out here with us and stopping the trains with song. "alright, next year remember, we got to wrap it up before 2:20 so we don't." but how else could the evening have ended?