The sun in November draws us closer. High cirrus clouds stretch to meet it. Shadows are cold, but none so cold as the shadow of the world when the sun goes down. In honor of today’s warm sun, a simple poem from e.e. cummings
:

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)  

21:31:58 PM

There is a good, warm sun today, and I notice the trees, even though all but the oaks are leafless. In most places in Reno they seem awkward and out of place, but here they come and stay on their own, with all of the beautiful, tangled mess that implies. They’re friendly, easy to get along with, nothing fancy about ’em.