The trees are stripped bare, as if the earth has decided to shed all artifice.  Now we can see into the woods.  It seems a shame, and is probably no accident, that this change coincides with the start of hunting season.

I like to think of the change, also, in intrapsychic terms.  What with the shorter days, darker-seeming nights, and “shedding of artifice” — it’s a perfect time for reflection — for “hunting” through inner wildernesses!

So I strap on my orange vest and head out into this new, November landscape.  I don’t carry a gun, of course — just my breathing self, maybe a sweet dog to walk with, and maybe a pen.  Won’t you come with me?

Here’s an  October poem that does just fine for November, too!