The Trans-Siberian roared through the neighbourhood last night. You could feel its rumbling as it hurtled through. Our quaking house was squarely tied to the tracks as it ran over us.
Via satellite you could see the long curving arc with its caboose somewhere out of sight beyond Alaska, snaking over the frigid climes of northern Russia then loading tank cars over the Pacific and picking up a full head of steam as it plowed into the left coast. Side spurs were formed as it splintered onto sidings and sub-routes.
This wasn't a large flaked, gentle steam train excursion of childhood memories, but rather a full throttle, angry runaway and watching track-side earned you an icy, stinging face-slap. Occasionally the engine would surge forward, sharply jostling the anxious dreams of sleepers as bedroom windows rattled.
Its now morning and all that remains is white wreckage spilled across the landscape.
Rush hour is derailed.
