On the way to market, as we approached the wrought bridge we heard the rumble of the locomotives, first as a low thrum beneath the feet and then breaking into clarity through the trees. We ran like children to the bridge to catch a glimpse of them before they disappeared around the embankment, but even as we ran the clamor faded, and we stood upon the bridge, grasping the rail and panting, looking down past our dirtied shoes to the tops of boxcars unending, whisked from beneath us and away, all evidence of the great motors fading into the noises of the evening.

If we were younger, we might have stayed to watch them. We might have even stayed to see a caboose, or the simple red flashing marker that ignobly replaces them these days. The trains are long, most times, and we might have stayed to see evening turn twilight turn night, all over a river of freight moving west. We did not, this time, for the market was closing, and we needed the milk for tomorrow.

The market was brightly lit and noisy with color and cheap music. When we emerged from there, blinking back the oncoming darkness, the rumble was already absent, the metal squeals memory. Someplace in the far distance a whistle blew, but we could not say if it was that train, our train, or even a train at all. We went home.