The Taconic is a dragon coaster:
unsafe, old, and terrible fun. White
knuckles coming back from college,
testing engines on the endless incline
approaching Putnam Valley, claustrophobic
between retaining walls and blasted
mountainside. Always apt to spot deer,
often in herds, or redtails perched on branch overhangs
or vultures riding on thermals overhead
through fifty-five miles per hour
on the slowest
days.
There were flying pizzas launched through
moon roofs over the Croton Reservoir, coming
back from Pleasantville. Petrified silence over
the unprepared, headed down to White Plains.
Third-degree burns in a rush to the hospital,
and the last of the great bonfires.
Rules of engagement.
I know this highway. I know Underhill Avenue and
Pudding Street. I know Lime Kiln Road. There is no
flooding here, not like the Saw Mill. No four-lane expanses
of big brother Sprain. Seductive, dangerous, secrets
unfolds to rural landscapes before Albany destinations.
1/11/10
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