Crunchy leaves underfoot or rustling in the wind, frost limning fallen cedar fence rails in the woods, a few owl feathers on the ridge, the blowsy plumes of field grasses and reeds on the edge the western field — all are fine representations of the season and plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is November.
The intense hues of autumn field and forest fade as the season marches onward, settling slowly, and with many deep sighs, into the subdued tints of winter: soft bronzes, creams, beige and silvery greys, small splashes here and there of winey red, burgundy, russet and a midnight blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity, but very fragile. November frosts make themselves known as sugary drifts over old wood and fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. The owl's barred feather lies in thin sunlight under a fragrant cedar and seems to be giving off a graceful pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of the western field all seem to be cavorting in plumed and fuzzy hats.
One needs another lens and tuning for winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key. The senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even if they are icy cold and wet.