It started in November.
I’ve always thought November was a strange month. All of summer had faded away and autumn was on the edge, holding on, but not quite strong enough. But winter had yet to arrive. Frost refused to sprinkle the ground with its silvery dust, yet the air grew heavy with children’s foggy breath. November is no man’s land. No season to boast its prideful owner. It’s crippled. It limps from day to day changing but not realizing it. It continues weakly, holding its breath in anticipation of the moment when things are so suddenly different. It’s hurting. Dying. Trapped within the foreignness of its own body. Yes, November is a strange month. Stranger still to be the site of something to begin.
But it still, started in November.
In the woods.
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