A Book of the Seasons: November 14.

November 14.

October light fades
into the clear white leafless
November twilight.

November 14, 1853

Now the bare branches

of the oak woods await the

onset of the wind. 

 November 14, 1853

The oak leaves rustling 

in this cutting northwest wind 

set your heart on edge. 

November 14, 1858

Now for bare branches
of the oaks and the brattling
of wind in their midst.
November 14, 1853

Under this strong wind

more dry oak leaves rattling down.

All winter their fall.

November 14, 1853

My boat's motion sends
an undulation ashore,
rustling the dry sedge.

November 14, 1855

the oak leaves rustling 

in this cutting northwest wind 

set your heart on edge. 

November 14, 1858

In this cutting wind

the dry rustle of oak leaves

sets your heart on edge.

 November 14, 1858

This strong and cutting

northwest wind makes the oak leaves

set your heart on edge.

November 14, 1858

This northwest wind makes
oak leaves rustle enough to
set your heart on edge.
November 14, 1858

November 14, 2020

The clear, white, leafless twilight of November. November 14, 1853

This morning it was considerably colder than for a long time, and by noon very much colder than heretofore, with a pretty strong northerly wind. November 14, 1857

This cold weather makes us step more briskly. November 14, 1857

 Such are the first advances of winter. Ice-crystals shoot in the mud, the sphagnum becomes a stiffened mass, and dropping water in these cold places, a rigid icicle.   November 14, 1857 

The rain has raised the river an additional foot or more, and it is creeping over the meadows. November 14, 1855 

The principal flight of geese was November 8th, so that the bulk of them preceded this cold turn five days. November 14, 1858

 I feel the crunching sound  of frost-crystals in the heaving mud under my feet, November 14, 1857

It is all at once perfect winter. I walk on frozen ground two thirds covered with a sugaring of dry snow.   November 14, 1858

This strong and cutting northwest wind makes the oak leaves rustle dryly enough to set your heart on edge. November 14, 1858

I climb Annursnack. Under this strong wind more dry oak leaves are rattling down. 

All winter is their fall November 14, 1853.

 A distinction is to be made between those trees whose leaves fall as soon as the bright autumnal tints are gone and they are withered and those whose leaves are rustling and falling all winter even into spring. November 14, 1853

A clear, bright, warm afternoon. November 14, 1855

A painted tortoise swimming under water and a wood tortoise out on the bank. November 14, 1855

The rain has raised the river an additional foot or more, and it is creeping over the meadows. November 14, 1855

The motion of my boat sends an undulation to the shore, which rustles the dry sedge half immersed there. November 14, 1855

Two red-wing blackbirds alight on a black willow. November 14, 1855

Minott hears geese to-day.  November 14, 1855

The thermometer is 27° at 6 P. M. The mud in the street is stiffened under my feet this evening. , November 14, 1857

[October] light fades into the clear, white, leafless twilight of November, and what ever more glowing sunset or Indian summer we have then is the afterglow of the year. November 14, 1853

Now for the bare branches of the oak woods, where hawks have nested and owls perched, the sinews of the trees, and the brattling of the wind in their midst. For, now their leaves are off, they've bared their arms, thrown off their coats, and, in the attitude of fencers, await the onset of the wind.  November 14, 1853

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