Black Was The Soul Of The Man In The Wind. Poem by Rich Harney

He looked down the track and stood west on the rails,
Humming sour into the desert heat.
Behind him the clickety and east of there
The iron gargantuan and the iron feet.
Tall cactus accompanied the darkening hymn
Bristling the west with; You're coming in?
We're waiting for you with the mountains chastening;
Thou thought is to dire for the whistling wren,
"I'll not move to the left or right of here"
" Wagering this track is my sad lament."
Nearer and louder the blank of the engine,
And black was the soul of the man in the wind.
As he looked to the west at an angry sun setting
Glistening the rails and blighting his eyes,
Through shimmer and glare and tears and bitter
A women appeared ‘gainst the wrestling skies,
The mule she was riding softly comic and gay
Sparked some little happy there,
Said she in a voice as the cool of the mountain
Come hither; with words as light as air
And seeing the shine and the beauty of face
He stepped away from the rumbling rails,
Then thunder and iron and clanging and clatter
Sped cold and shrieking to dales.
He turned and watched as the iron behemoth
Clamored away to west and sun,
Then turning back to the lovely maiden
She and the mule mysteriously gone.