The stick still silence of birdless limbs

There always seems to be a pause come November. between the end of things and the beginning of things. Its fitting to have Advent at the end of November, to stop in grace, prepare for the great beginning, 

No gleeful birdsong. Now bare twigged trees beckon us to listen for direction.

I love the smell of Ohio woods in November. The crisp smell of crimson and orange, maple and oak leaves tumbling over across the lawn. 

obeying the wind, moving on. 

The birds fly frenetic, whirling, cyclone patterns, 

obeying the wind, moving on.

Then, the silence, the crack and creak of rubbing tree limbs. You can hear your own Mind. The sun lower, the light pensive.