Sunday, November 17, 2019


It's getting cold. The leaves are almost gone. I have to shop for ingredients to bake for Thanksgiving. Must be November! Above are black vultures ruffling their feathers on a roof. Below is a pretty poem by Clyde Watson.


“November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.

With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.

The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.”

Click on the photos to enlarge.

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