The Silent Switchyard

Iron flakes bloom like winter roses along the parallel scars of the valley floor, where the great beasts of diesel and steam once exhaled clouds that swallowed the sun.

Splintered ties surrender to the goldenrod, soft green hands pulling the wood back into the damp, unforgiving earth that remembers every trembling arrival.

The switchbox stands blind and hollow, its glass eyes shattered by careless seasons, pointing toward a destination that dissolved into the mist decades ago.

Only the wind runs the line now, a ghost train singing through the rusted spines, carrying nothing but the quiet weight of journeys left unfinished.