November is at its best when it behaves as though it is April, with skies that change from bright and blue and filled with sunshine, to mottled grey with silver and gold-lined clouds, then back to what it was before, sweet and wide and warm; when the small brown birds flutter from bare branch to branch, lining up like exclamation points to watch, twitch-headed and nervous as Duncan and I pass below; when the first thing that greets us on a morning walk is a lazy-flying bee, wandering low and confused over the leaves which only appear golden from the proper angle but are muted and yellow husks when finally alighted upon. The bee swept up suddenly, as though rejoicing at the sight of other living creatures, zipped a tight spin around first my head then Duncan's, tip-toed across his back and sped away, through the fence to lose itself in the sinking yellow wilds of the tall grass that lays down along the wide edge of the golf course.
It is hard to remember the holidays and the gales of true, unfettered winter are so fast approaching when all the world seems to be teetering on the edge of Spring, when the few remaining ruby leaves of the bush whose name I still don't know look like polka dots and the air tastes of mint and cinnamon all at once. But until the morning I know Autumn has surely passed and winter has claimed her place, Duncan and I will walk and marvel and take our rejoicing where we can find it. Exclamation points, polka dots and all.
Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.