Rest Area. On the Ottensheim Drehseilfährt

I stood on the Ottensheim ferry each night, crossing and recrossing the Danube, the air growing cold and damp. Water. Spirits of the drowned. Direct line to Australian ghost travellers. A fog that hangs on the surface and coats metal with condensation, soaks into wood and lungs. I stood on the ferry’s Wilhering side, furthest from the wheelhouse, while Rest Area was in the van beside me. Unlit and isolated, I opened the van door twice every fifteen minutes, one person in, one person out. I breathed the Danube air, scraping my airways, sluicing my heat out. This is two minutes of the sound outside Rest Area, from the fastest part of the river, on Sunday night at 8:20pm. (Sounds like gargling static, but a memory nonetheless.)