You are pulled to the window by some force that wants you not to miss how the early morning’s blush climbs up the sky behind the houses across the road. The screen of trees – pines and maples, naked but for three evenly spaced squirrels’ nests – is starkly black against the startling magenta. You look down at your notebook to write this, and when you look up again, it has all faded into a clouded gray. Gone in less time than it took to write one sentence.
You notice that a light snow has fallen, sugaring the lawns and the mountain range of spent leaves piled at the curb, and you feel the year turn toward the growing darkness.
This oddly benevolent November has been a special gift, gentling the transition. Time has spilled gold and fire into the bowl of this perfect autumn, and held it there for you a while.
What can you do but be grateful. Things change so quickly. A week ago Paris was still the ‘City of Light’.