November, in contrasts

The way the bare branches of the Box Elders reach up, up to the white November sky, pebbled at their ends, reminders of the promise of buds some half a year away from coming: the texture of that sky, opaque as milk but softened with subtle grey: the complicated crosshatch of the branches, hosting tiny pairs of birds and then empty again.

Does the Internet need another little voice, another handful of paragraphs, added to its cacophony? Probably not.

But sometimes one just has something to say: the branches, today, are a tangled beauty, and I need to stop and notice.