Smoky November.
Mist, crisp, rising,
I watch from the window,
I hear the buzzard's cry
The roe deer scurry by.

The surroundings are solid. mammals in homes.
Some beings only present in the harshness of bones.
November. Meander to your end.
Let nature slow, the final sigh before the bend.

Warmth is rare.
The robin's breast.
An old feather lain nest.
Deep in the woodland core.

Redwings with red berries.
A blaze on once still shrubs.
Every tone of silver sits.
Upon its host of tree or twig.

Ice creeps upstream,
frost comes at night unseen.
So still and on edge.
Waiting for the thore,
To move and grow and water flow, once more.

In the clench of this season.
I watch and wait, for an April date.
Spring will come. As dawn does break. 
flowers will open, and the living shall wake.