Following an unintentional nap, I went out to wake myself with fresh, cold air. The high winter moon had broken free of the flocks of little sheep clouds which had earlier shrouded it, and shone from the midst of a giant circle of clear sky. Now that the mulberry tree has shed enough of its leaves, the moonlight can scribe its twiggy shadows on the wall. I watched them scroll for a while, the arcane glyphs slowly inching up as the moon sank toward the western woods. I might have watched longer, but my ears grew numb with the cold. I've read that scroll before, anyway. It's all about how time escapes, and the futility of any attempt to capture it. A gust of breeze rustled the remaining leaves as I returned to the house. I'm pretty sure they were laughing at me.
We have rain for Thanksgiving, and a seemingly endless supply of crows who fly back and forth, filling the gray evening with caws. I have hot, spicy orange tea, and a package of Ghirardelli's double-chocolate chocolate chips. The cat is curled and purring in her sleep, and I can smell cornbread baking. All the leaves remaining on the mulberry tree have turned gold, except for those on two branches which swoop in front of my window. They remain a deep summer green. I see three seasons, perfectly framed. When night falls, I will read a book. Happy Thanksgiving.