There was a moment: The train trudging (at an impressive speed that belied the judgments I may or may not have cast on its grimy appearance) through a flat, green landscape serenely dusted with snow; trees holding up their empty, gnarled branches as if proclaiming their resignation at the emancipation of their leafy wards; tall, majestic windmills, blithely going about their business of saving humanity from ourselves; the sky a meek and mewling blue, clouds corpulent and unwilling to be moved from their heavy perches.
Another: When half the sky is so overcast that it almost looks sick and swollen, while the other half seen through the opposite window defiantly lets light break through thickening, quickening clouds; the light making the trees glow golden against that swollen, purple sky; and you just want time to stop because you can't be sure if you'll ever see anything like it again. And then it starts to snow. And everything gets blurry and strangely speckled. But, certain things seem to be beyond all that icy, white obfuscation: the colour green, and the dying golden light of the horizon.
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