Listen to Milano by Sigur Ros when reading this.

Careening through coastal New England

over the grey mundane waters

parted like seas of red

reflecting our train.

Reflections of promise, possibility

Ambition not yet achieved.

We are bolting down the seacoast,

Majestic New England furrowing across the rippling hills 

and ridges of rock&circumstance

Connecticut unfurls herself

Allowing us to breach her borders

until we are a speeding bullet

with a final destination shot straight at the confederacy.

It's hard to forget where you are right now.

Maybe it;s the chill of the air

& its advance knowledge of how to subject you

to the dampness of toe-clenching December cold.

On the way, every square mile you pass looks like an oil painting of a landscape.

The famous kind that you would only find in a museum

with muddy hues that blend together.

It's so accurate, so honest.

Jaded nature, bodies of water. slate.

Endless walls of trees-bare, brown and coated with a thin glaze of precipitation

Ambiguous-not rain, not snow.

Just God's way of letting you know the earth is well-oiled 

& glistening all the way

And the hills!

Nowhere else in the country are the hills like this.

Providing characteristic to an otherwise blank slate on which to create humanity.

The steep ridge of hills in the horizon.

The promise ahead of you that there's something worth driving into. 

Or if you're even lucky to be peering off of that ridge,

you have the chartered insight to peer down at a mini-civilization

-the brick stacks and factories of a now archaic industrial city. '

-the white relief of middle-class houses stacked like monopoly pieces in the nook of a hill

Maybe the sun will come out

& you'll see a golden shine adhere itself to the view from your 3x4 foot box of a window

The taupe fields of reeds will develop a glisten as if to say thanks for the sunshine. 

And the sky.

The December-Connecticut-cotton-candy-sky.