Hunting

Tracks

The men drive with one hand

On the wheel

The reservoir flows below

Gurgling and frothy where the bridge

Crosses and combines with

The rusty rail road tracks

The men turn to cross, and

The one and only 35 car train

Comes and the hands come down

The flashing and beeping drives the

Men insane

This train will not be stopping

And the men start creeping

Up and across the bumpy

Rick-racketing train tracks

And up the rocky dirt road

The men roll down their windows

And look for a canyon but

Only see a wash with bottles

The men stop and pick up the cans and glass

Slowly moving up the mountain

They see the perfect spot

The men set up the cans and jars

On mountains and on rocks

And the men play kick the

Can down, down the hill,

Because there were no rabbits to kill. 

A poem I wrote waiting for a train to cross, the only train for miles around on tracks in the middle of Spanish Fork Canyon.