“Don’t stand too close to the tracks. Keep far away. Over here.”
The train is approaching. The wind is splitting around it, swirling and gathering sharp as blades. I stand back. I know it’s dangerous. I once saw that wind chop up a rabbit like a meatslicer.
“It used to be,” Julie goes on “that you could stand beside trains, right up against them if you dared. And the breeze would just ruffle your hair.”
We watch the train pass, and its horn blows sharp in our ears. The current slashes the blades of grass beside the tracks into trimmings.