river of electric firelight
illuminated tracks
each tie a droning beat
glimpse of moth pulled
into light, flash of wings
a windshield smear
night moves as
any night made slow
by tons of steel in motion
a woman in white flutters
from the embankment
onto the tracks a door
closing on the night
flash of her lost eyes
and then the thump
half a mile gone
before he could react
or reach to pull the brake
a million moths
flit in spaces between
the shadowed trees
—
The other day a butterfly smashed into my windshield. Just a moment to see its beauty before impact and nothing I could do. That reminded me of a some stories I’d read a few years back about the effects on engineers of people who commit suicide by jumping in front of trains. There is nothing they can do but watch, turn away and in some cases spend years trying to forget.
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
I remember reading about that too. Quite an analogy here.