Soon everything will be pen-and-ink, drawn starkly by the snow. But not yet. November is a muddled pallette, a great watercolor bleed of sepia, soil, and sky. The edges all smudged (the bright leaves turning back to dark soil) and feathered (the bare braches shading into bone sky).
Our new field is soaking wet. This valley all used to be the bottom of the sea, and the bottom of a great lake, and when the waters pulled back they left many and heavy deposits of clay. Rain two nights ago left water in the plow furrows which stands still today. Another spring like last spring - wet and cold and wet - and we may not be able to get into the field in time for first plantings.
Still, we craft our plans. The seed catalogues begin to arrive. Lots of people farm in clay soils. It will be alright.
And November rolls along on its creaky wheels. The kitten doubles in size, then doubles again, and is still so small that she can sleep in the tiny wedge of space between J and I when we curl up together. The teapot begins warming up for winter duty. We pull the heavy boots and down jackets out of their boxes, put away the summer dresses and sandals and broad-brimmed hats. In our new greenhouse, we prepare the soil for winter carrots and spinach and beets. We wish for a woodstove. We put the sleds out in the shed, easy to hand for the first good snow. November is nearly past, and winter, oh winter is coming.