November Hurts, Sometimes

The sand is all covered with dry dead leaves, they skitter across the cobblestones like brown leather moths while the Sun walks away south and the sky whispers, "November."

It's the dry, dead, fast cooling valley between the end of summer, and all those warm promises, and the end of the year, when we light candles in the night and hold hands 'round burning Yule logs.

And I hope I can hold on that long....