On Bison Skulls and Trains
A train rumbles down the track and passes beneath my feet. I’ve parked my bike under a streetlamp and am bent over the bridge’s handrail to watch it head west. Boxcars flit forward. It’s midnight, my first summer in Iowa City, and a bout of loneliness has punched me in the gut.
I’ve just read an article on The Farmington Daily Times website, a publication out of my hometown in the Four Corners Region of New Mexico, and am debating whether or not to tell my children what I know.
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