Imagination Making Reality
by Odin Roark

Somewhere distant…

A water tower stands,
trunk at the ready,
windmill partner squeaking,
like every other day.

Oiled rail ties hold tenuously,
they shake and settle.

Atop railway platform,
timbers vibrate quietly,
fifty strong to the left,
fifty askew to the right.

Shadow of one horse moving,
bridle loosely tied to the rail,
its fourth leg raised in rest,
as twitching ears scan with radar silence.

Inside the ticket master’s retreat,
old burlap curtains flutter,
an invitation to secrets beyond,
history making history
amidst restive motion of musty air.

Patience continues…

In a shadowed sunset,
weathered telegraph receives its
incoming dot, dot, dot, dash-dash-dash,
adding to the curled plume of communication,
its thin tape drops to the worn floor,
a punctured life still clinging
to the tapping of yesterday,
like an umbilical chord never cut.

The distant engine whistle shrieks,
life’s centipede of iron wheels,
grabs the rails to stop,
the water tank’s trunk ready to accommodate.

All is in a desert hush,
save the engine’s steam purging,
the incessant dot, dash, dash,
the squeaking windmill,
its cadence like an ominous warning.

The train remains at rest
as one passenger steps down,
his dust encrusted hat shades his face,
his holsters sawed off shotguns hold steady,
about to come alive.

The horse twitches,
drops resting leg,
looks to its left.

The station master lies lifeless on the floor.

A shadow in the station-office corner readies.

All remains quiet behind the hidden wide-frame cameras.

“Action” is whispered.