I take the long way home after another work day, to find a lengthy freight train has stopped in my way. No other traffic is there to be found, I had room enough to easily turn around but I pulled up close to where it sat, silent and motionless on the rusty track. I killed the motor and with the windows down, listened for some telling sound. A clink a scrape a hiss from a brake. Any indication it might be readying for escape. I look to the left no sign of the end, and to the right well beyond the horizon the cars extend. It’s the afternoon freight I think to myself so certainly it is headed south. Then comes a long labored steel-on-steel wheeze as the rails moan like wind-bowed trees. Looks like I was wrong, directionally speaking, as to the north it lurches with bangs and great squeaking. And then a brake steams and it stops once again, changes direction and accelerates then. With a whiff of axle grease it now rolls with ease and I watch graffiti covered cargo boxes fly by with a breeze. Is it hams or HDTVs inside those spray-painted boxes? Microwaves, Levi’s, briefs or boxers? Who are Eastside Foxxy and BubbaBGR8?” In what rail-yard did those artistic scrawls originate? I am in no hurry no place to go and I sit and stare and wonder as the rumble starts to fade away, and still I am in mesmerized oblivion when up comes the crossing gate, and the horns of the drivers behind me start wailing away.