November's Dawning

I n the first few hours of this past Sunday morning, I found myself walking my dog under a soft bluish glow, down an empty country road.  It was nearly 4 a.m. and the stroll was a moment of solace in the wake of a long night working crowds of howling Halloween revelers. An old Ford pick-up passed by, weaving its way home – perhaps a goblin or rum-soaked pirate behind the wheel.  Standing sentinel were perfectly spaced ancient maples, their bare gnarled branches reaching up in praise of a brilliant waxing moon.  The world was silent save for the occasional rattle of leaves skidding across the blacktop, and the clicking of the dog’s enthusiastic sniffing.   A surprisingly mild breeze pushed those leaves along, and was sending silver lined clouds sailing across the heavens.  I marveled at their hypnotic power over my gaze. November had suddenly arrived, and the Feast of All Saints was served up as a sublime entrée for the senses.