08/11/2018
November.
November is a lonely wind, whistling around corners in search of identity, and tugging persistently at the last few faded leaves, clinging to the branches.
The wind whispers and moans. Tasting at once the tang of autumn fires, and of the blizzard that bulks beyond the horizon.
Bereft of the glories of Indian summer, and not yet of winter, November holds us in abeyance.
It is a time for quiet. Colours wave as the forces concentrate their energies. Not on display - but on survival.
The brilliant indigo of October skies, fades to mauve and then to slate.
Rivers echo the tone in chilling waters. Reeded banks droop, thawing grasses, and pond life retreats to deepest water.
The remaining birds commune with subdued voices, as the cry of late flying water fowl floats down through the misty air.
November is a time of withdrawal.
Trees cast loose their flags of life, and so on the living and the dead stand indistinguishable - grey silhouettes against grey skies.
Small animals draw close to their earthen shelters. Insects burrow in, or under.
The full, warm moon of harvest recedes into the void space and silvers the sparse landscape with cold, metallic rays.
In the beauty of October, we could have walked forever through the riot of colour, breathing the intoxicating air, willing the cycle to stop there.
But the greys of November change this.
We look over a landscape - brushed in neutrals, husbanding it's resources, girded against the coming cold, and we can no longer deny the rightful season.
Something in us looks forwarded to the testing that is to come.
November waits - and so do we.
- John Charles Dewey 1922-1998
