November light is flimsy and surreal.
A sunny afternoon's a rare treasure,
Akin to faded silent movie reels,
The sepia-toned ghosts of fleeting pleasure.
The river runs in steely silent rolls,
With solemn certainty it welcomes winter.
Its banks are mum, lest waterfowl calls
Break silence with resounding mournful splinter.
Twilight appears early, unannounced,
With liquid chill of dismal autumn nights.
The winter breath’s becoming more pronounced
Unflustered by a crackling fireside.
