We got a bit of rain last night, and this morning the neighborhood is damp and blustery and Novemberish. Now the furnace is grumbling, and the kitten is purring, and the coffee is steaming, and T is making his sandwich for work and I am listening to sheets churn in the washing machine, and we are chunking forward through our quotidian hours.

Tomorrow morning I'll be hitting the road for Vermont, so today will be housework, and laundry, and catching up with emails, and getting onto my mat, though I hope I'll also be going out to write tonight. I dug up Baron's dahlias yesterday, so they are now safely stored in the basement for the winter. Really that's my last big autumn chore. I may cut back a few more frost-bitten plants, rake a few more leaves, but for the most part the beds are ready for winter. We've still got a smidgen of chard in the garden and some late lettuce, and the kale is doing well, now that the groundhog has gone into hibernation. I'll likely be harvesting into December, unless we get a sudden snow or the temperatures plummet.

I like November, when the hats appear and the coats get buttoned. I like turning on lamps in the late afternoon and lighting the wood fire. I like hot cups of tea and my warm walking boots. I like the smell of baking and roasting and a bouquet of sage on the counter.

Yesterday Teresa and I finished our Whitman reading project, and now we are going to turn our attention to Zbigniew Herbert's Mr. Cogito.  I am still working my way through The Waves and Little Dorrit and The Descent of Alette. Chuck is excited about a piece of kindling. The chickadees are noisy in the maples. I love my long-poem draft. America feels a touch less gruesome. It's a cheerful morning around here.