This morning is far too bright and sharp for November. The smudgy greenness of the underbrush far back in the woods is shadowy, but the skirt of trees that rim the edge of the woods are standing in hard yellow sunlight, as bright as for a morning in August. The leftover leaves on the pin oaks are glittering in an affronting way, robbed mostly of shadow by the spotlight sun. It looks strangely unnatural, a day caught between seasons, not sure whether to be summer or midwinter, like something from a Ray Bradbury story.
The only thing that anchors the mind in November is the wind stirring the woods. It keeps the day from looking too much like a Dali painting.
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