A Sunday In November

The misty rains
Linger upon
The morning's air.

As the lowly winds
Rustle the soggy trees;
carrying their leaves
softly towards the ground.

The uncertainty
Of the changing season
casting a mild chill,
As the sun soon
Approaches the horizon:
Its peaking, clouded by
The light gray hue above.

The stale scent
Of the remaining pines
Wane, before relinquishing
Unto Mother Nature, herself. 

The early bird
Chirps to welcome
A dreary new day;
Only to find, his kind,
Still slumber.

The changing foliage
Resounding in earthly shades
Of deep amber, scarlet, & ochre.

For Winter swiftly awaits;
And be upon us,
Before the fortnight pass.