There are bones on the tracks.
Bones bleached white in the
Leg bones mostly,
a spine near Rowaton.
A skull or decimated baseball —
I suppose it doesn’t really matter.
Not at this speed.
Not from up here.
Not if you never notice.
But how do you miss the dead duck,
the artistry of feathers,
her head curled against the
warm steel track in Darien?
I rub my fingers along a smooth jawbone
left in my pocket from last week’s hike —
possum perhaps, raccoon?
My fingers touch its teeth like rosary beads,
penance for our collective apathy.