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.