I like the light in November. It wavers unassuminging as if it was unaware of its own frail beauty. I like how the day never quite feels like day, even at noon, there is the rush of the afternoon already gone in a sun too heavy to lift beyond it's own presence. I find myself sitting on the porch caught in the long shadows of grasses huskily singing. It is a fleeting moment, which catches me all the more, for I know that the warmth on my face cannot contain the rest of me. Still I am shocked when I touch cold fingers to lips that still are kissed by sun. November has a constancy I like despite the transient nature of the watered down light. It always feels the same, and beyond all other months, I can feel it's haunted eyes on me, and recognize it's keening call.
