Leaves, once flamboyant rebels,
now sprawl about like casualties:
crimson and gold fading into muted surrender;
a quilt of decay where life yields
without apology — nature’s collage
upon the forest floor.
The air she says sharp and unforgiving,
Classic November. No serene interlude,
but a brawl of transition
as autumn’s specter succumbs
to winter’s piercing advance.
Beneath skeletal trees now,
we stand. Brittle inhabitants
crumble, turn to dust underfoot.
I recently watched the 1975 film Three Days of the Condor, directed by Sydney Pollack starring Robert Redford as Turner/CIA codename: Condor and Faye Dunaway as Kathy. In a scene shortly after Turner enters Kathy’s apartment, he notices her black and white photographs lining the walls.
“You take pictures,” he says. “Beautiful pictures, but of empty streets and trees with no leaves . . . not quite winter. They look like November. Not autumn, not winter. In-between. I like them.”
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