Jason Ryberg

A thin fog has formed

this morning from steam rising

up from frozen fields

and yards, and now a

freight train whose cars are mostly

covered-over with

spray-painted cartoon

characters, gang-signs, hobo-

code and what I’d think

a roomful of art

school professors would have to

concede was some form

of post-post-modern

abstract expressionism,

comes rudely slamming

and blaring by. And

then a bird the shade of blue

that the sky wishes

it could be, plops down

on a fence post for a few

seconds, then, is gone.