IMG_0684November comes

And November goes,

With the last red berries

And the first white snows.

With night coming early,

And dawn coming late,

And ice in the bucket

And frost by the gate.

The fires burn

And the kettles sing,

And earth sinks to rest

Until next spring.”

― Clyde Watson


I poke around while I do the fall chores ~ cut back the brown relics           that used to be coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, all the glitzy showstoppers that will return ~ and prod under leaves in search of a sluggish bee, an acorn stash ~ a book?


Branches scrape, leaves rustle, the nuthatch cracks his breakfast.  Today is a glittering crystal-clear day, the kind I miss most when I’m farther south.

Everything is winding down, getting ready for a time of rest.  A few squirrels scurry, beavers build on the shore of the pond, Toms strut.


The birds that stay behind flit around me and my Woodman Pal(s).

IMG_1944IMG_1946There might be frost on the pumpkin by dawn.  And one morning soon there’ll be a thin layer of ice on the pond.  Winter is slinking into town.

Toni 11/6/13

Day 6NaBloPoMo_November_small


  1. That’s me up there with my feet to the fire, but I’m glad your woodsmen pals are at it. Someone has to. Have you considered leaving seed heads for the winter birds, or have you seen through that excuse for just putting my feet up like that cricket I hear at my hearth?


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