I have allowed the mulberry leaves to accumulate, and the front lawn is now a green and yellow carpet of them. They will have to be removed soon, lest the grass turn brown from lack of sunlight, but for now I am enjoying their bright tapestry. As no rain is expected anytime soon, I don't need to worry about having to rake them when they are wet, which is one of the most unpleasant of tasks. Tomorrow, in fact, is expected to be fairly warm, and might be a good time to get the job done. I'll only have to miss them for a while, as there are still an abundance of leaves clinging to the tree.
A warm day will be a pleasant change. This has continued to be one of the coldest Novembers I can remember since coming here. Though the chilliness is quite bracing, I won't mind a break for a day or two. And it would be nice to relieve the bed of the great weight of blankets with which it has lately been laden. It is, in part, to that encumbrance that I attribute the strange dreams I have been having, from which I wake in a state of agitation, though I remember but bits and pieces of them, and those soon fade. It is a strange time. I'm waiting for something to happen, and I have no idea what it is.