The light on the 6:54 westbound as it emerges from the Pennsy tunnel in late March is golden, like a Millet, and in a moment I see why the swamplands of the meadows remind me of rural France. There is a disc of setting sun, it could be Key West if there were the Caribbean -- there could be applause and beer and wine and tequila as it sinks below the horizon, just west of Secaucus Junction and the Turnpike, looking out over the expanse of Spring and Summer.
I think of Jean Francois and the Gleaners and the Angelus and heroic peasants and I don't have to force myself to see, I only have to imagine and wander.
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