The train passes by each small Spanish town, the church spires towering over the low-roofed homes. The ground is mostly bare, browned from the cool winter air. Although mid-30’s seems to be the lowest it will go. The land lopes up and down, up and down, like ocean waves caught and made immortal.
Is the sky softer here?
It seems to be.
And every inch of ground farmland?
Fruitless bushes, brambled rows on the matted dirt, stand without purpose until the Spring.
I am free, my body and soul expand with every field the train passes. Gentle giants pose as mountains in the background, curled up and sleeping in century-long doses.
I wonder about the little houses that stand alone in the fields.
A tiny town, its castle-like church proud atop the hill.
Clusters of homes hug tightly to the sloping land.
Tunnel after tunnel we pass through, moving along on our way to Madrid.
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