From Madrid to Valencia

I’m used to the green meadows of England. This part of Spain—outside of Madrid on the way to Valencia—is so different. Dry. Everything is beige or dusty green. Rocky. Yellow earth. I see some red clay. It’s a dry, prickly kind of pretty. But the sky is so, so blue. 

The train moves fast. Fields of parallel lines appear that follow the shape of hills growing … what? Bright green, yellow petals. I put my glasses on. Sunflowers. The fields are sparse, but large faces all still point towards the sun like soldiers saluting their flag. Other fields roll by, already harvested. I can’t tell what was grown there. Maybe wheat? But instead of desolate the barren land appears soft and warm from the train window, like golden velvet. 

Or, maybe, I should put my glasses on again.