Down at the end of the street, a freight train squeals and rumbles north. It is strange, living so close to an active track. I wake in the night and hear trains. I sit in my car waiting for trains to pass. What's in those cars? Anything could be in those cars.

Autumn melancholy sifts down through the weary trees. Windows are shut, sweaters buttoned. Cicadas scree in the drying branches.

I wish I had something to say, but what?

Autumn 

Amy Lowell 

All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
But each leaf is fringed with silver. 

1919