I crouch in leaves and needles
under pines and water oak. I crashed my way
to this place through the saw-vines and mimosa
avoiding poison ivy and backyards. Vibration

escalation, terror of arrival, noise and
bulk and overwhelming
joy, blur and roar and clack and whistle
fast and loud and large
receding sudden.
Fading, gone.

The noise of startled birds
returns, and the sound of my own breath.
After long enough, I rise,
lift my weight on steady hands and feet.

No rails for me no predetermined route
marked out on maps. No tickets
and no whistle. Crunch of footsteps
chosen, breath. The scratch of nails
on trunks of trees and long-discarded
glass and rusted metal.

Times crashes into me at the crossing
but I will just bend like the river.

– Wren Donovan