Joan Prefontaine

Close

The sky turns a sickly green as all three doors slam at once. Get down, hurry, grab the dogs! No time to plan or think, just clamber down uneven steps into the Stygian gloom of the root cellar, the odor of damp and forgotten earth, spurred by the thunder of an onrushing train – a cliché so apropos, so unexpected that none of us will ever describe it any other way.

snapped-off pines . . .
my brother clutches
his green plastic T-Rex