A Deep River Year
October 8, 2014   

 October in New England is defined by its colors--the bright oranges, reds, and yellows that paint the hills and valleys. For me it has always been smells, too. Years ago it was the smell of burning leaves that perfumed every October afternoon. Still, autumn is redolent with earth smells, the sweetness of decay and the ripeness of apples fallen in the long grass. In the autumn wind sometimes you can catch a whiff of the sea, or perhaps the merest hint of winter in the night air. But the sounds of autumn are there, too. I smile at the familiar rustling of leaves on the streets. And I paused this morning to watch an arrow of geese passed over the treetops, honking some kind of message and massaging the air with the beating of wings.

Here in Deep River we hear another sound: the whistle of an old steam locomotive as it makes its way up and down the river valley. For generations the sound of a train whistle has been a haunting sound. It has been a harbinger of change and loss, a yearning for something beyond our sight, or a longing for those who have left us. Autumn, too, has about it this sense of lament. Even in its sweetness, it sings a song of departure, of endings. It is a season of memories about those who have taken some train far away from us, or of opportunities we have missed and of days that will come no more.

But I walk the railroad tracks remembering the boy that I once was, waiting on the platform of the station, waiting for the rumble in the distance, the plume of smoke, the bright light of the approaching engine. It would roar into view, sleek and gleaming, then churn to a stop. These trains had magical names, like the Rocky Mountain Rocket and the Denver Zephyr. I never got to travel on one of them, but I always dreamed that they were bound for glory. And they made me think that in this world where everything was possible, I might be bound for glory, too.

Train Tracks

We would kneel in the gravel
and carefully place our pennies
on the shining steel rails,
then wait in the trees
for a great engine to come thundering by,
flattening our coins into good luck charms.
We would pocket those copper discs
and they would carry us away
to the golden lands of our dreams.
We always wished, then,
to go somewhere else,
imagining that life would carry us away
to a place past prairies and mountains,
a place where we could find something—
perhaps fame, or romance, or glory--
beyond the long bend in the tracks.
Today it is quiet as I walk the twin rails
that curve past water and woods.
Amid a flurry of yellow leaves
I am a boy again,
hearing in the wind a far-away whistle.
Though I am content in this good place,
I reach in my pocket for a penny
and place it on the track.
I leave it there behind me,
offering it to someone
who may walk these rails tomorrow
and need to pick up a dream.

--Timothy Haut, October 8, 2014