November 4th 2016

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thread-
····bare moon over November’s threadbare
········fields
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The colors of November are somehow like the colors of October. I remember in grade school cutting out orange moons with owls and black wolves with yellow eyes. And then Thanksgiving the same construction paper returned, only the moon was a pumpkin pie and the wolves had turned into Puritans.
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364 November 4th 2016 | bottlecap
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November 3rd 2016

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after
····showers—the evening’s clouds as scattered
········as leaves
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After a long day of rain, broody November clouds lumber over the mountains. Wispy  mists rise from the valleys and the river beds. No leaves are left to drip in puddles after the day-long rain passes—only a voiceless dark chilling the dimming air.
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363 November 3rd 2016 | bottlecap
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November 1st 2016

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under
····her hood—November’s starlight filling
········her eyes
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I remember reading, at the start of my Haiku Year, that Buson once had an ambition to write something like a thousand haiku in a week. Illness prevented him. Up until today, I haven’t been sick. Now, in the last week, a touch of fever and exhaustion lets me experience a little of everything.
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361 November 1st 2016 | bottlecap
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October 30th 2016

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mo-
····tionless waters sliding under the great blue
········heron
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Twice a year, in the little stretch of brook that passes just steps behind our house, a migrating great blue heron visits. The bird only stays for several minutes, fishing for brook trout, then continues on its way. They’re large and graceful birds, like gray flamingos, hardly seeming to belong to a small October’s brook in the mid-woods of Vermont.
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359 October 30th 2016 | bottlecap
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