The Winter Express*
I sent the following as multiple SMS, while on the train to Rhode Island. I was later urged to blog these moments, and so:
12:43 p.m.
Train journeys are romantic at night. But during the day, plain magical -- especially during winter. Thick quilts of snow between the tracks, patterned here and there with dainty bird tracks and scattered berries. Sunrays are shining down gently.
13:22
Ooh, amidst all that snow, there is a small clearing claimed by the sun and dry grass. A cat found its way there and curled up like a golden comma.
13:52
An old bench, red and peeling, cradles a small mound of snow. A tyre hangs down from a tree, evoking memories of swinging children and summertime. My book lies in my lap, unopened. Everything I wish to read right now is outside the train window.
14:19
I am in love with New England. I am also somewhat distracted by the man sitting across from me. He has dandruff flakes that look like magnified snow crystals. How very charming.
(*) A salute to Chris van Allsburg.
12:43 p.m.
Train journeys are romantic at night. But during the day, plain magical -- especially during winter. Thick quilts of snow between the tracks, patterned here and there with dainty bird tracks and scattered berries. Sunrays are shining down gently.
13:22
Ooh, amidst all that snow, there is a small clearing claimed by the sun and dry grass. A cat found its way there and curled up like a golden comma.
13:52
An old bench, red and peeling, cradles a small mound of snow. A tyre hangs down from a tree, evoking memories of swinging children and summertime. My book lies in my lap, unopened. Everything I wish to read right now is outside the train window.
14:19
I am in love with New England. I am also somewhat distracted by the man sitting across from me. He has dandruff flakes that look like magnified snow crystals. How very charming.
(*) A salute to Chris van Allsburg.