Climbing out of his hole sometime around mid-morning, Muskrat sniffs at an eastbound wind and rolls a juniper twig of a cigarette. Rubbing the match head against the wall and lighting the dangling participle of his morning inches from his whiskers, Muskrat lets out a sigh. The bottoms of his feet are black and his fingers cracked and trying to bleed. Muskrat figures if it wasn't for his garden, six tomato cages, a raised bed of zucchini, a few small pepper plants, brussell sprouts and an assortment of petunia's and lavender plants, it's on that train he'd ride. The only problem is he's isolated himself to a town without trains. It's a town where the trains used to go. There's a commuter train northbound and an autorack repair facility a few stumbles south but for Muskrat the air is silent and still. He listens intently each morning to the birds chasing tail on the electric and telephone lines, listens for the overriding sensation, vibrations in the air of the old lonesome whistle and wail to pull at the heart strings and make an aging Muskrat pull up roots and ride. But there are none. Instead he places his nose in a crossword, nibbles at homemade blueberry scones, eyes the piling stack of dishes on the counter and settles into an Albuquerque morning.
So that's Muskrat... he's a good egg, a little miss guided and still learning like we all do all our lives.
give him some time, he may come around...
until then...
Solidarity forever... ride free, be safe and tell the people around you you love them.
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