A Saturday in Our November

The rain was more a mist. The day was grey.

The trees bare now, upside down broomsticks sweeping the dusty sky. The dog didn't want to get wet.

There was roast chicken in the oven and the house smelled of butter and thyme. The trimmed brussels sprouts, so green, reminded of another season, gone. The firewood was ready, old newspapers rolled, companions.

The kids were restless, not enough energy burned today. Oh boy.

The dough for dinner rolls had risen too much and we laughed
These will be some big buns!

And then,
There goes that cuckoo clock again,
Twelve chirps at 6.
Always the 6 o'clock hour, never earlier, never later.

We should really get that fixed.