November

There are wet leaves sticking to the ground, and trying to kick them would be pointless. Fortunetly, kicking leaves, hoping that one will come along with you, for a foot or two, is a fairly low key pastime. Because, in November, the gray sky has a beauty to it. When time stops and even though the wind is rushing, it gives a certain kind of comfort, like a hug. And wandering under the canopy of clouds is like being safe under a blanket. Somehow thoughts never stop running, and even the murky waters of a gutter puddle, crowned by brown foliage, reflects the tiger striped sky in a way that seems like a miracle.

When you step out onto a clear block of concrete, there is a certain amount of truth that is not necissarily depressing, but real. Fog is clarity to me when there is no other way to look around. Just keep going down the street, and go towards that green light, because that green light is the only thing you've got left, and even when it turns red, take the risk. So why is November so wonderful? Because my head is spinning and I can't think about anything in the right way and the only way that I can soothe my remorse is to not lash out. Kick November leaves instead.