Trains of Winnipeg

Trains of Winnipeg

Just because I no longer live in Manitoba,
don't think I've forgotten you. How your whistle
soaks the air of an August sunset.

Me on the river trail, jogging
with ryegrass pollen on my gums,
rowers skimming the current.

Your approach is a brown noise—a weight, a watching.
The sound comes later. The full
mechanical force of you.

I used to time my runs to pass under bridges
as you barrelled over. That final span
above Wellington Crescent at the mouth

of Assiniboine Park, Assiniboine Forest, the Zoo.
The CNR Bridge at the Forks, families with slushies
strolling below.

And then you, and all
conversation
stops.

The grittier crossings—that nameless
bridge by Higgins and Main, the Red River.
I used to sprint its wind tunnel dark, breath held,

plastic bags in a maelstrom,
your passage a cacophony, harbinger,
sirens policing the rapture.

Winnipeg is a train city, river city, a city of bridges
and crossings to elsewhere. I thought I would live
in Manitoba forever, but that pairing

ended like all the others. I still wake up
some mornings and mistake
the sound of wind

through Okanagan orchards
for the rush of a vanishing train.