I leave my building where I live to be greeted by a strong current of cold air, which makes a 31 degrees a couple of days are so only a vague recollection of the past. As I meditate in the cold today and yesterday's heat I approach the bridge, the bridge from which I can not help, as I have never done it before, look at the train station.
This station has become a magical place, a building that mesmerizes me every time I am somewhere that allows me to see him in all his majesty, and makes me dream with thousands of destinations that could be achieved in each of its visitors meandering electric and steam. Today the station dressed in orange reflect its hundreds of windows, reflection caused by the dying sun hidden behind my back. On the season draws a large white moon framed in a blue sky at times gives the illusion of being more purple than blue. A cloudless sky, no stars to give the impression of not being more than a box whose author forgot to finish.
I soon realize I left the field of view of the train station and turn my ateción to my way south. Suddenly I found myself in front of a picture where a green, still dominant in the scene, fighting unsuccessfully against the yellow, orange and red that will soon dominate the stage. As I reflect on those images that fill my memory now conclude that, as I was warned several times before, fall is the season of poetry.
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