Silent

I insist we take the canyon road,
Leaving town the back way along the river.
I haven’t driven this way
Since before the railroad shut completely down.
That time I saw a massive box cab
pulling electric current from copper wires.

Today I drive with quiet thoughts.
Winding through the narrowing canyon,
dwarfed by cliffs of granite.
Across the river rotting ties vanish
from a ledge between blasted tunnels,
forever choked with noxious weeds.

Now—not a trace of commerce.
Only wind where something vivid used to move.
Heather in full bloom;
Purple spreading beside the highway.
It breaks my heart as history unfolds the years.
Overhead wires gone, sagging poles remain.
Powerhouse tumbled into rubble—vanquished
along with locomotive's arc and surge.

The river rushes on, untroubled,
unchanged, indifferent,
carving what it always has,
a different kind of current.
Leaves me with memory and distance
and something like love for what is gone.