Map of Quiet Engines

At the edge of town the water tower hums, a slow throat of metal holding its breath. Light leaks from a service shed like warm oil, and the night tastes faintly of pennies.

I walk where the rails end, into gravel and weeds, listening for the hidden machinery of crickets. Their pulse is a stitched-up road, a ribbon mended by tiny hands, a music that keeps the dark from spilling.

Clouds move like laundries on a late shift, folding the moon, unfolding it again. A freight train sleeps somewhere beyond the river, its dream a corridor of iron.

When I turn back, my footprints fade in the dew. The city behind me is a pocket of embers, and ahead, the fields are learning to shine without being asked.