November

Autumn turns slowly away from us and the oak trees are set into an amber frieze: warning statues of light and dark. Elsewhere, in the commotion of the world, the last of November seems to be driven by anticipation – chasing the beginning of festivities as though striving to move through this moment – but it exists regardless. The internment of the year.

I wanted to tell you about an occurrence that moved me deeply, a few days ago now. In the lee of the months, everything’s so clearly audible.