Tracks of Dust

The horse races time, muscles carving air,  

while the steam engine bellows its iron lungs,  

wheels clattering like a heartbeat against rails.  

Fields of gold stretch open, unending horizon.  

The rider leans forward, wind in their teeth,  

reins taut as if holding onto history’s edge.  

The prairie hums beneath hooves and metal,  

a song of velocity sung in two keys.  

Black smoke tangles with the open blue sky,  

shadowing the plains with echoes of thunder.  

Windblown mane and coal clouds blur together,  

each moving forward, chasing something ephemeral.  

The land remembers: hoofprints, tracks, whispers.  

Now, those melodies are caught in fences,  

pastures replaced by lawns trimmed uniformly.  

The echoes dissolve in the hiss of sprinklers.  

Where steel once met courage under flesh,  

asphalt highways sprawl, humming electric songs.  

The horses sleep in photographs; the trains rust quietly,  

as a new kind of race leaves dust behind.