November is a lonesome wind, whining around the corners in search of identity.  The wind whispers and moans, tasting of the tang of autumn fires and of the blizzard that hulks beyond the horizon.  On the lowlands, a protected flower bed still glows with color. But the mountain peaks shine with fresh snow.  And the wind tugs persistently at the last few faded leaves clinging to the cottonwood.  Bereft of the glories of Indian summer and not yet of the winter, November holds us in silent abeyance.

It is the time for quiet. Colors wane as the forces of life concentrate their energies, not on display but on survival.  The brilliant indigo of October skies fades to mauve and then to slate.  Ponds and rivers echo the tone in chilling waters.  The ragged chorus of frogs  diminishes and falls silent, and the drone of a lone wasp is sudden and startling amid the growing stillness.

November is a time of withdrawal.  The trees cast loose their flags of life, and soon living and dead stand indistinguishable — gray silhouettes against gray skies.  Frosted flowers shrivel and fade, as the juices of life retreat to the sanctuary of the protected roots.  Small animals draw close to their earthen shelters.  Insects burrow in or under.  Pond life retreats to deepest water.  The full warm moon of harvest recedes into the void of space and silvers the spare landscape with cold metallic rays.

And yet there is a cleanness to November.  There air is sharp, damp and penetrating.  The woods are open to the slanting rays of the sun.  Brush and trees that were only a jumble of greens take on form and individuality,  The view across the hillside is unobstructed, and the neighbors who were screened off by foliage seem suddenly closer.

There is a certain pleasure in clearing the brittle remains of summer’s growth out of the flower beds and raking the last leaves into a tidy pile.  In the cold of early dusk we, too, withdraw to our chosen shelter, warm numb toes before the fire and find satisfaction in solitary musings.

In the beauty of October we could have walked forever through the riot of color, breathing the intoxicating air, willing the cycle to stop there–and never turn further.  Bur the grays of November have prepared us.  We look over a landscape brushed in neutrals, husbanding its resources, girded against the coming cold, and we can no longer deny the rightful season.

We welcome a clearing away of the unnecessary.  A concentration on the essential.  A chance to view the basic structure without distraction.  And something in us looks forward to the testing that is to come.

November waits. And so do we.

(from an old Readers Digest)   (I love it)