November Chill

The slap of a fat newspaper on the driveway tells me that it is Sunday again. Surely, it was Sunday but two or three days ago! Somehow, the week has been shortened, the days carved out by some thief of time. More than half of autumn is gone. Now another moonless night hurls me toward winter. There are no clouds to reflect the town's light, and the forest is no more than deep darkness, making a ragged edge for a silken sprinkling of stars. All detail is absent. There is no sound but the occasional fall of a leaf- not even a whispering of pine needles stirred by breeze. The air holds only the faintest scent of damp earth and wood. The only sense this night will stimulate is touch. It is cold. I shiver and go indoors.

( Sunday Verse )

Short

I barely saw daylight today. Up too late, and kept busy. The overcast and the persistent foliage of the mulberry tree prevented most of what little light there was from reaching my window, too. I might get seasonal affective disorder from this. Tomorrow ought to be sunny, though, so I should have a speedy recovery, provided I wake up a bit earlier.

Did the Vice President put his Depends on backwards, or was he just glad to see the election returns?