Seed Train Through the Burn

At milepost zero the freight yard smelled of rain and iron, each boxcar breathing cedar crates, paper sacks, small rustling galaxies. We loaded them by flashlight—acorns, milkweed, bitter lupine— names of green futures stamped in black on the wood.

Beyond the city the hills were charcoal ribs, creeks running thin as wire through ash. The locomotive sang low, a throat of thunder, pulling its lantern of seeds through the burnt dark.

At dawn we stopped where orchards had folded into smoke. We opened the doors and wind entered first, lifting chaff like prayer flags over the slope, while children pressed kernels into warm, black soil.

By evening the rails behind us shone like wet roots. No miracle yet—only crows, silence, patient hands— but under the ground, minute engines had started, and the earth kept their music in its fist.