This time of year can be rough: early sunset, darkness closing like a lid way before I'm ready, and long nights. I would say, long cold nights, but the cold hasn't really arrived.
My four hens were only laying one egg a day, and now have given up. It's the lack of light; last year they quit, but started up exactly one day after the solstice.
I think of this chunk of time--the six or so weeks from when we surrender Daylight Savings and duck into five o'clock dusk, until Winter Solstice--as its own dark season. November stores some of my worst memories and anniversaries. Car wrecks. People I know & love getting hurt in accidents. A local barn burning down. And when I was a kid, one Saturday in late November was the last, perfect day I ever ran; a bone disease hijacked my leg and life just hours later.
Years vary. I've had good Novembers, and I think my average has improved over the years. I'm still wondering what happened to my summer that was sucked away by the knee replacement surgery. But my knee feels really good and stronger all the time. I'm still adjusting to the increased height in my prosthetic leg (a quarter inch!) and going to the chiropractor a lot. When my steps are awkward and weak I remind myself: it's only hard the first thousand times.
And I'm chugging along writing my YA free-verse novel. At the Highlights workshop (I always want to write/say "clinic" instead of workshop--too many horse training clinics in my previous life) I heard these novels made of poems called "impressionistic" and "film noir." I really like that: edgy, uneasy, moody poetry.
Something suitable to be writing this November.