It got cold last night – 40 degrees! – and the pool temp crashed to an Arizona winter-esque 59 degrees. The air had a smoky scent from people with fireplaces and chimineas burning wood, and I wished I could have cozied up to our chiminea with some nice mesquite cut from our back tree crackling and popping while I nursed a Johnny Walker Red (one cube), but the patio is scraped and spackled for sanding and painting this weekend – it’s gonna look gorgeous. But it sure felt like November – perfect for this poem:

“How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.”
– Elsie N. Brady, Leaves

Hat tip: egreenway.com

Here’s some music I’ve always associated with the bleakness of November: the final movement of “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast”, from Pink Floyd’s 1970 release Atom Heart Mother. My brother Mark and I used to practice my bass and his drums to this song over and over down in our cellar “studio” to learn the timing we wanted to achieve as the rhythm section in our band, Top Priority. Good times, such a long time ago…

Hard to believe the holiday season is now less than two weeks away.