November

A mockingbird in a persimmon tree. Click to enlarge.

The sun is going down at around 4:30 here now, so by the time I get home from work it's fully dark. Nevertheless there is autumn beauty all around. The wild persimmons are ripe and the birds are feasting on them!

Here is a poem for the season by Adelaide Crapsey. The poet was born in my  neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights in 1878.

               November Night

               Listen...

               With faint dry sound,

               Like steps of passing ghosts, 

               The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees

               And fall.