I've lived in the upper midwest now for 18 years and I can honestly say that I am only beginning to learn the meaning of November around here. I got an inkling a while back, when Maggie explained to me that brown is not just brown. Each variety of grass transforms with its own signature hue. When the grey skies and rain come, the grasses begin to glow.
The bright leaves of autumn have dropped; only a few varieties of oak are left with color. Their rusty brown leaves had the patience to hold out for a more subtle moment to sing. The sun, low on the horizon, knits the harvest and hills together.