A melody of golden hues, yellows, opulent oranges and rosy reds pirouette the wind, intertwined with the propellers of a nearby sycamore. Wishing to be free as they, gazing out the window through the wooden panes, mind adrift toward the Iridescence of what is autumn. A three-pronged leaf falls into my lap, and I mindfully examine it. Over and over, I trace my finger along each jagged line increasing in length sequentially. Over and over I do this. Over and over the teacher calls my name. Class has come to an end. Ever body is scurrying past the door and a mass of children submerge into a stampede. Mr. XYZ motions to the clock mounted above the exit, where the red hand read three twenty-one. The lecture ended six minutes ago.