Grace and Austria

Swiftly now, gracefully we slide upon rails of iron and rust. The train trembles lightly and Blair shakes his postcard, coaxing the ink to dry. Massive windmills twist softly, perched upon the undulating grasslands. Songs from the past and fields of umber and raw sienna are smeared across a hundred kilometers. The stalks of crops are brittle and my throat is dry. A pile of cleared brush burns silently by the railway berm as a hunched figure stokes the flame. The train floats by.

 
 
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