The More Things Change....

Descending, the full moon enters a haze which then flares, engulfing the west in pearly luminance, silhouetting the pines and the half-bare oaks as though before a cool fire. The air, damp wood scented and brisk, barely stirs, but the night is filled with the sound of leaves despite the lack of wind. Always, one or two are falling, hitting the ground with soft clicks. This I hear in the front yard. When I go onto the back porch, I hear more loudly the futile wingbeats of three large black bugs which have trapped themselves in the sink. I have no idea what kind of bugs they are, or why they are unable to fly out of the sink when they clearly had to have flown into it to begin with, but this happens every year. I they are not rescued, they die in the sink. This event is so commonplace that the cat no longer shows any interest in the bugs and their struggle whatsoever. I guess they aren't tasty. I can sort of identify with those bugs. And I probably wouldn't be very tasty either.

November is a strange time.

( Guy Fawkes Sunday Verse )