Raw and wintry, with snow on the ground and an iron wind. I muse on the convergent evolution of “December” and “dismember”.

Clear and very still. The soft twittering of sparrows drinking from the stream, up where the sun has begun to melt off the heavy frost.

Gray skies for Black Friday. Shots ring out from the valley as deer hunters sight in their rifles in preparation for opening day tomorrow.

A rustling in the fallen leaves turns out to be the briefest of showers. The sky brightens. I practice looking at trees as if for the first time.

Cold, gray, and damp: a classic November day. Sunday gunshots from over the ridge that could mean the death of a crow, fox, coyote or bear.

The western ridge glows orange with sunrise under a lid of clouds. It’s very quiet. I can hear the soft, inquisitive chirps of waking birds.

Cold, but with eddies of warmer air as the sun rises through the trees. It’s clear except for three mare’s tails—remnants of dawn contrails.