November Fat, ring-necked honkers wing noisily through a bleak, sodden sky the color of wet cement – heard well before they’re seen, and half-obscured by the heavy, near-frozen mist diffusing dawn’s early light,           they gradually assemble in their curious,         distinctive, preternatural acute angle,         slowly wheeling south-by-southwest         as tardy stragglers join up,         well-sated off of the gleanings         of the last, late harvest.               Below, the stingy oaks at length             release the final installment             of their myriad, precious progeny –             turned russet, bronze, and sepia             by seasonal nip and chill,             (that inevitable harbinger of summer’s demise)             and falling steadily to earth in the             inhospitable clutches of a brisk nor’easter, they dance and whirl and tumble across dormant fields, coming to rest against some pear-shaped ochre gourds which are still marking time until their own date with the destiny that, for them, likewise spells November.                                           --D. W. McMillen                                              28 November 2006 Back