The school had all crowded into the steeple, rushing against each other in mad flight, and along the corridors of theaters there were people dying by the thousands, caught in this sick parade. The principal that rules the boilermaker ruins turn-ups. All days are sad that end on shorter days. Although it ultimately means nothing, we can still observe the beauty of the trees in late October. Perhaps next spring will find them dead, etched in acid.
Mourners line up in columns and march into the foothills.
History may record the events, but Time calls the shots all the time. And though nothing may ever come of it except complete oblivion after all, still let it be said that we have seen the trees flaming on the hillsides, burning in the autumn sky, flaring in the air among the mountains. . . The story is simple to tell. I am walking down a street and hear music coming down from a plane. And it surprises the others who look at me from long ago, an age gone by in eyes of fear and wonder.