Arriving in the dark is black and orange. Staccato red and punctured white. Impossible to know what daylight looks like and not able even to imagine after nineteen hours of travel.
Soon a clichéd, howling mournful train, which I know cannot be as lonesome as the ones heard in Kansas a couple of years ago. Then I slept, hearing, but not woken by, a dozen repetitions.
Morning grey and green. Constant traffic noise explained by the elevated Interstate above an intersection, beside another crossroads whose surface is, like the tarmac car park down below, wet glistening.
Attached to this, with ugly childish tackings of telegraph pole and streetlight, are broccoli trees, the furthest mystified as to where the hills, only apparent later, have disappeared to.
And, just this minute, the sun appears; the Interstate turns silver, maybe all the way to Atlanta.
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