mry writes

The train rolled by in an endless procession of steel; graffitied, rusting, rattling, sometimes dripping. Round cars, square cars, open cars, open doors on closed cars. A parade of transport; a mass of commerce, or material for future commerce. Chemical, mineral, raw and finished products.

A person, then three, soon a gaggle, waited more or less patiently for the parade to pass. Some waiters were visibly frustrated with waiting, fidgeting, tapping toes, scowling; other waiters turned to neighbouring waiters to test their willingness to converse, kavetch, pass the time discussing weather, endless trains and speculations about their contents, the things of little consequence people waiting share with people waiting. A few waiters simply stared at the passing train, heads jerking side to side as each car passed, lips moving in silent counts of the cars in the long train.

The ground vibrated; the rails flexed; the ballast bounced and settled. The sounds became rhythmic, almost lulling, the rhythm occasionally broken by the clack-clack of an errant truck.

The penultimate car approached, an older wooden boxcar, a rarity amongst the miscellaneous steel cars. Inside, framed in the open door, a woman, long and lean, spun like a ballerina, a top, a tornado, her arms flung fully outward, then spiralling in to hug her lean torso, then spiralling outward again to embrace the world. As the car neared and crossed the crosswalk a shaft of sunlight, a beam of brilliance, illuminated her as if the universe’s spotlight was highlighting this wonder. The frustrated stopped their toe-tapping; the sharers stopped sharing to watch, mouths open; the counters, distracted, lost count at 131 cars.

The dancer in turn watched the watchers. Her face opened into a big smile; she blew a kiss; she continued twirling. The car rolled past; the train rolled on, disappearing around a bend. The waiters and watchers stood, some on tiptoes, and stared down the track at the receding miracle. The sunbeam faded.