an old writer and his words

Of course when we livedup north we wouldn’thave imagined this, sittingon our lanai watching the sunset the patchy sky ablazesipping small glasses of portand wondering if a lightjacket might be in order,as the beaver moonof November waxes slowly. The cat, curled at our feetcannot imagine the icy windhowling down the street,the foreboding clouds offeringtheir first…