A Ford Model A at the crossing stands, Dusty wheels on restless lands. Its engine hums a patient song, While the iron beast lumbers along.
The rails hum low, the ground does quake, A moment of pause for history’s sake. And then it comes—the mournful cry, A steam whistle wail beneath the sky.
Two-tone sorrow, a voice of steel, Echoing stories the tracks reveal. Of journeys made and goodbyes said, Of dreams that rode where the rails led.
The driver waits, hands firm on the wheel, Lost in the sound, the weight he feels. For time seems frozen, past meets now, As the whistle’s howl whispers its vow.
When the train moves on and the crossing clears, The pickup rolls forward, erasing fears. Yet that steam whistle song lingers still, A ghostly tune, a memory’s thrill.
