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A few weeks ago, Jeff and I took the day and went to a nearby small town with a freakish amount of antique shops. (I hit the fiance lotto:  Jeff enjoys antiquing with me. He likes and can appreciate the history of things.)

As we were walking from store to store, we passed over some rail road tracks. I was struck by how pretty the view was, and I whipped out my camera.

I don’t know many other places where you can get this kind of flatness, where the only reason the tracks stop is because of the limits of the human eye and the curve of the globe.

It’s easy to grump about the lack of mountains — or, hell, even teeny, tiny hills — in the Midwest, but there’s something kind of peaceful about that picture. The grain silos, the big puffy clouds, the train tracks that you know go on just as far in the opposite direction.

I suppose you’re not all bad, Ms. Midwest.

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