November passes relentlessly trudging with an unknown purpose into winter. A few remaining leaves hang from the trees only for a little while longer waiting their turn to be wisped away. It's the same every year. It never changes.
I find myself in my annual journey one frame at a time, a still-life in a northern gale, bundled tighter, shivering more.
New roads promise an escape from the barrenness, but always find their way back to the grip of winter days. I lay down my head, hoping for an hour's sleep to dream of spring and colors other than gray. I close my eyes and hear the ticking of a clock. Counting the ticks, I grasp for assurance that winter will soon be gone. Today is November 28th.