Waves of wind sounding like ocean roll through the trees in the distance. A spattering of crow calls is incongruously answered by a barking dog. Somewhere a hanging set of chimes tangles and untangles itself, tinkling with the arrival of said wind. In the sky, clouds move swiftly, indicating they are anything but trapped in a Maxfield Parrish painting. But the light speaks other words, telling of colors and art and beauty that the wind refuses to hear.
Streams and rivers mirror this strange light, and the fish must wonder at the water’s queasy hue. Water rippling slightly from the brush of the wind, sky putting on a late afternoon show, and forest deciding whether to slumber now or when the darkness has fully unfurled. We are incontrovertibly, and inconsolably, into November.
