There is a section of my train ride home where the track is inexplicably raised tens of feet above the surrounding countryside. It's not far out of London - only fifteen minutes or so on the fast train to Cambridge. The view from the train at sunset over the fields of grazing horses is spectacular. The southeast of England is not a particularly hilly place, and thus a passenger has perhaps 30 seconds to appreciate it before plunging into a tunnel. Some instinct prompts me to look up from my book to see it nearly every time even though I haven't been riding tis route for long.
Sometimes I continue to look meditatively out of the window after the tunnel is past. If I were a giant, I would reach out and run my fingers along the golden furrows in the fields. I would pluck a few telegraph poles and build a teepee frame, and unravel some hay bales to wrap around it. (I would leave the hedgerows alone, though - wouldn't want to disturb the spiders.) I would pluck a branch from a liquid amber tree, crush its leaves all at once under my nose and inhale that sharp spicy fragrance. I would scoop up a handful of damp earth, tilt my palm slightly and let it sprinkle past the carriages. I would delicately ruffle the curtains in the farmhouse window, just to see them flutter and not enough to disturb the occupants. Before the station, I would plunge my hand in a pond and fan my fingers to dry in the rushing wind.