It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures. The bed is white and silent, and much life can hide beneath its blankets....
In November, the trees are standing all sticks and bones, Without their leaves, how lovely they are, spreading their arms like dancers. They know it is time to be still... ...
In November, at winter's gate, the stars are brittle. The sun is sometimes a friend. And the world has tucked her children in, with a kiss on their heads, till spring..."
"How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow."
- Elsie N. Brady, Leaves
(all photos taken last week on a hike at Conestoga Lake)
"So dull and dark are the November days.
The lazy mist high up the evening curled,
And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;
The place we occupy seems all the world."
- John Clare, November