"Of course it does. Everywhere has seasons. You just have to know where to look for them."
Delightful images formed in her mind and she smiled. She saw the seasons hiding: spring behind a tree, winter in the attic, summer in the shrubbery...
She found it interesting that there were publishing seasons. Spring, summer, fall, winter. She would sit on one of the benches that lined the platform and make whimsical guesses at what each "season" produced. Would autumn be ushered in with leaves of books drifting down to carpet the ground? Would winter produce snowballed books lying forgotten in high drifts, or bestsellers that readers could throw at each other and watch the splatter and disintegrate? Would spring come in with tiny new books sprouting from bookshelves like rows of beans?
The Train Now Departing, Martha Grimes