the views are better when you sit facing the direction of the train passing through one delicious field of trees thick as marmalade after another spread over sweet and sorrow but October’s fossil infects forgotten fields untamed or made orange by sunflower blood and because you shoot through the countryside forward-facing with the train biting one stretch of track after another it’s too late to brave your head backwards and weep over Redwood’s whisper you instead devour the majestic verdure that sprawls barmecidal: ahead of you lies not a past coughing present but the future
