Morning light does not enter the swamp. Even the sunrise is dark. Still, time progresses, night into day. A picture of bayou country is deceiving. Slow streams converge under mud to make the appearance of land that is actually water. One net of moss hangs from one hundred trees. Lightning strikes the same stump many times.
People pass the swamp's fringes in trains, on tracks that cling to the last solid ground. Out of their windows are landscapes that take the earth's colors to every periphery. Bright orange sunsets surround people like sky on an airplane. On gray foggy mornings they ride through a dream that has no beginning or end. But time has its limits, these people know. They are expected places—Memphis by midnight, New Orleans by dawn.
Deep in the swamp, animals keep the only appointments. Birds gather at high places in trees. Raccoons make their last noisy passes for food across someone's back porch before he awakes. Fish all around splash up, although they cannot see the morning coming to clean the picture of day like clothes bleaching in a galvanized tub from dark gray to light gray.
Joan looked out from the porch to the swamp she had known all her life. Ahead of her in the veiled light were the outlines of many trees. Below and around her were the crisp sounds of nature awakening. Cupped in both hands, perched on her knees was a warm mug of coffee.

Which of the following can the reader infer from the passage above?
A.
Travelers sleep throughout the journey.
B.
The ride has a nightmarish yet harshly realistic quality.
C.
Travelers lose their sense of the outside world.
D.
The ride is for airplane passengers to see the sky.