Sometimes it takes over from October in gray and rain—a sodden beginning. Sometimes, like today, it's all cold, brilliant blue and topaz, half-dressed trees, crunchy underfoot, and a ragtag squadron of jack o' lanterns lined up on railings and doorsteps, squinting and agog at the new post-Halloween world. Starting with Día de los Muertos, with fancy-togged skeletons in Mexican tableaux, with black-cloaked porch goblins looking a little embarrassed, with all the saints—the ones you know and the ones you don't.
November has work to do, different from any other month's. From January through most of October, the work is about creating with the sun, first lengthening days, then a cardinal's song, then greening, growing, blooming, fruiting, ripening—even long after the days have started shortening, the ripening continues in new leaf colors, new fall flowers, a new fullness. Then it's November's task to take it down, just as artfully, but in brown. In service to the minus.
Because at this time of year, less is more. Wabi-sabi rules. By December it's more or less done. Winter is winter. But it was November who made it happen. Took one set down to make room for the next. Not that November wants thanks. Oh, maybe an acknowledgement.
Good work, November. Good weather for writing. Good browns. Nice topaz.