Dealey Plaza, November Again

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The live oak still lives in the birthplace of Dallas, ramified high enough, fifty falls after, to block a bead drawn from the sixth-story window at Houston and Elm. Why call it story? Says here originally a row of windows painted with pictures, but what’s the story of a white-gloved hand grabbing the arm that jerked up convulsed? What a day. The sun crusades across the sky despite the dark attacking early as highs hit eighty, but does it count as Indian summer without a prerequisite killing frost? Doesn’t say here why Indian summer, and as for pictures a thousand words each, no way any picture snapped at the scene ever beat assassination lisped by a six-year-old missing two teeth. What a day. No wonder he wanted the top down.