November

I see a figure in black, jacket with hood up and pants walking a black larger dog from the top of my hill. The brown and dull gold with black pine of the park looms ahead of the figure. The gray sky with threat of rain envelopes the day. The scene is solitary, yet it is not. He has his dog and a walk to clear the mind.
I think I despise November, despite what I wrote the other day. The anemic sunlight disappears too soon in the evening. Black at six, causing a hunkering down feeling for a too soon night. Yet, it is a creative time of year, as death with black bare branches and dull lifeless leaves against a gray gloomy sky cause a digging down to the words of the soul.
I know why the first snow in November causes a delight. White covers the dull.  A heavy snow refreshes a dying landscape, covering the signs of death. White brightens the day. The snow can stay too long, but the first one, I don't think of that, only a change.
The days will get longer again. November only brings a haunting of good bye. I am grateful, though, for the rest, the creativity of this time of year.