November: another day in the dying season

I'm sure the trees are bereft when they are stripped of their last leaves. The green life retreats deeply into the core, hiding numb to survive. Finally, true winter comes, and then they seem content to wear their winter wardrobe - black coats trimmed with white. They become architecture.

I've never gone south in November. In less then a week, I'm going to. I'll see what it feels like to have heat on my birthday instead of cold. That hasn't happened since I turned three years old. I was born in an African summer. Maybe somewhere deep inside, my body knows this.