Rain in November used to be cold, foreshadowing the next month of frost and savage winter. Yet, this November with its still dry grounds and soft airy nights under the oak tree brings us the surprise of not seeing your breath materializing in the atmosphere of the night. Even more so in the morning the fresh row fog lightly caresses your ear and forehead, as a voice of someone missing.
With this rather prosaic description I think of November as a missionary, or an agent of the missing.
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