futurebird's Diaryland Diary
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Like a church just after the voices of the choir stop.
I love to watch the paths jet planes make trails in the sky.
I�ve always loved machines, especially the sounds that the big ones make. Outside I can hear the sound of a jet plane going high up, a throaty roar. I tremble with the motors beating away the air to keep that hunk of metal aloft. I shiver, in harmony.
Last night as I crossed the bridge I heard the bells of the cross-signal for the train tracks ringing. I looked over the edge as the arms fell, flashing red. I waited. I knew what was coming.
From behind me the whistle shouted out. Screaming to the city of its approach! There was a rumble rising up through my legs and, all at once, the smoky, diesel beast burst from the stone-walled tunnel and ran under the bridge.
And the sound of the cars bumping and grating the rails went on forever as I watched it snake slow below me, hugging the ground around the bend, disappearing into the forest.
And then it was still and quiet again. Like a church just after the voices of the choir stop.
If all things that move, by some miracle, are possessed with souls I hope that my little spirit will awake some day in the body of a train or an aeroplane made of steel or aluminium: cutting through air, or riding entrenched on a steel crest over the earth.
18:14:15 - 2001-02-01
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