The train has made me dreamy again. The constant poetry of land and sky rushing past my windows has opened something in me, unlocked a hatch that had previously been sealed shut. From my sleeping car vantage I get privileged glimpses of life in America, tiny weathered towns in the middle of starched golden plains, glass-fronted houses built into stark white banks of snow and trees. I am the wistful girl in the house too close to the tracks for a good night's sleep, silver bullet train speeding by, going anywhere but here. I am the self-loathing privileged writer peering out the windows at endless herds of cows, wondering how someone can make a life from just standing still, when mine is so perfectly fueled by running. I am a cow in a golden field, buffeted by the wind, thinking only of whether those clouds look like rain.