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I can hear the trains rumbling through town, the wheels shrieking against the tracks as the cars slowly make their way past the old depot. Some of the cars are old, blue paint peeling and rust showing through. Others are newer, but marred by graffiti. “TOM” reads one and obscenities spoil another.

Not a beautiful sight.

It’s not a shiny, gorgous train like the ones you read about in stories or see in classic movies. You know, the ones where the gentleman and lady eat in the dining car and make eyes at each other quietly and inconspicuously over eggs.

But there is a kind of music to the clatter of the cars and the squeaks of the wheels. It is familiar, part of the soundtrack of this town, a track mingled with church bells and a quiet thrum of tires on the pavement. Children playing backyards and in the street, birds chirping from the telephone wires and trees.

And a rumble of the freight train as it comes into town.

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