The bright eye of the sun peeks through twisted branches, setting but not quite hidden behind the hills. Rusted traintracks curve into the distance, straightening out through a deep valley below.
I sit on the platform, the tips of my toes a centimetre across the white line, a teasing act of rebellion for the day. A chilly breeze runs over my shoulders, and the song of the grass in the wind is audible, even from here.
The particular taste of an Oreo, and the sunset sounds of David Wirsig, accompany me in these last few moments of sunlight. The hills are forbidding silouhettes now, and the anticipation of a train roaring past becomes tiring rather than exciting. Reluctantly, but inevitably, I head inside, and let the hours tick by.