November blusters in Whitmore Lake. It's the season of books and tea, rum punch and scarf-wearing. Darkness sets in early. The rain and wind sweep across my roof. The world becomes insular as weather stretches distances. Basho understood this in his haiku, the way a season can separate people–––
Autumn deepening –
how does he live, I wonder?
And yet there are letters from friends, books from a long way off, music and cheer and company. And from time to time, a word from you, dear reader.