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emmer effer
a pretend genius broadsuction
some days are better than none
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Claire Chang
11th Grade
The Brearly School
The Slow Fall
The train traverses quiet meadowlands,
Remote New England pastured all aflame;
Infernos loom on the horizon, gold
Explosions, crimson flare-ups whirl.
The foliage, though distant, overwhelms
The Landscape – bright, untamed, recklessly wild.
As dusk approaches, shadows—long, and soft—
Alert the passenger, who sits alone,
That soon her cell-phone will illuminate
Her face, enclosed in darkness, mirrored in
The train’s dull windows. Autumn, formerly,
Of all the seasons suited her the best.
She loved to frolic round and round about
Through fallen leaves, and watch as gusts of wind
Would snatch away her worries, crisp and quick.
Outside the train, the sun begins descent—
A golden orb that radiates the light
Of ebbing grandeur, Day’s last splendid gasp
Of air. Unyielding darkness presses on.
The woman’s phone abruptly starts to ring.
Unhurried, she now turns to answer it,
And frowning after realizing the call’s
Been missed, she turns to face the window, glad
To gaze at trembling grasses, sparkling trees.
The train continues trekking through the night;
The leaves ignite the stars- the sky burns clear.
