It's november. It's grey and raining. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees. The few that are left are dull mustard. Raindrops hand from every branch and twing. The street shines with rain, and black reflections of trees make it look like a lake. It's hard to take, this greyness. But we can't really complain. It's been unseasonably warm and beautiful all month so far!
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats