It is late, the days tick by. I want to find the spirit of November, but it eludes me. All around the air is clear and bright. I am weightless in this light.
I cup my happiness and set it out before me. I kneel and touch my head to the ground. I wait.
I remember how the mountaintop holds its face to the sky, these elementals, stone and light. I see a grey slab of rock turned horizontal like a table holding nothing. The wind blows a single twist of leaf across the surface, a small scritching sound.
November is not stone and it is not wind. It’s not the leaf blowing over the stone. It is the memory of the touch of the leaf after it is gone. And then it is the forgetting.