November is cold rains and raw evenings and bright, crisp days and a few fugitive snatches of Indian Summer. It is brown oak leaves fluttering in the sunlight which slants from far to the south. It is blue jays screaming and juncos twittering and a swift, silent flight of teal beating downward in the early dusk. It is crisp frost in the dawn.

November is a hearth fire and apple cider and pumpkin pie with plenty of spice in its brown goodness. It is topcoat and gloves and a muffler under the chin. It is storm doors and storm sash and an ice fringe along the streams. It is clam chowder and pea soup and Irish stews, with lots of potatoes and onions in them.

November, late evening of the year.

Hal Borland.