Coffin Springs

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On a walk near the cottage
I rented to mark my retirement,
the mountain streams
rambling down the wooded hillside
into Loch Eynort remind me
of Coffin Springs by the tracks
that ran along the Missouri River
in my childhood's Bellevue.
With our bikes in the ditch
we waited for trains and sipped
wild water from dirty cupped hands.
We packed crumpled cottonwood
leaves into my souvenir corncob pipe
and took turns puffing
spitting out the ash and saying
I love this.
As the train lumbered closer we ran
into the woods until the engine
was out of sight then threw rocks
at the empty cars marveling
at the loud ding echoing and
wondering if the engineer would
slam on the brakes and chase us
up the hill.
We never found the pennies
we laid on the tracks but didn't
spend much time searching.
Matt's older sister was home
from college and we needed
to go look at her.