A Book of the Seasons: November 20.

November 20.

The poet has made the best roots in his native soil of any man, and is the hardest to transplant. November 20, 1857

Hardest to transplant,

the poet best makes his roots

in his native soil.

November 20, 1857

I see a partridge on the ground under a white oak by Tarbell's black birches, looking just like a snag.This is the second time I have seen them in such a place. Are they not after acorns? November 20, 1857

I see a partridge 

on the ground under an oak, 

looking like a snag. 

November 20, 1857

The hardy tree sparrow has taken the place of the chipping and song sparrow, so much like the former that most do not know it is another. His faint lisping chip will keep our spirits up till another spring. November 20, 1857

The faint lisping chip
of the tree sparrow will keep
spirits up till spring.
November 20, 1857

The glory of November is in its silvery, sparkling lights. I think it is peculiar among the months for the amount [of] sparkling white light reflected from a myriad of surfaces. November 20, 1858

November glory.

Sparkling white light reflected 

from all surfaces.
November 20, 1858

Methinks the geese are wont to go south just before a storm, and, in the spring, to go north just after one, say at the end of a long April storm. November 20, 1853

Geese  go south, methinks

before a storm – and in spring

north,  just after one.

November 20, 1853

November 20, 2017

November 20, 2014

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2020