Shades of endless grey.
November.
Stick season.
Full of all things possible.
Void of any thing at all.

It changed so quickly.
Like all things.
One minute it's this. The next - it's not.
Where is the color? Where is the life?

I think about what it means to honor this day.
Is it just one day older than yesterday?
Or - is it one whole year?
How do I measure and weigh?
How do I mark time?

I love the vulnerability of the leafless trees.
I love the uncertainty of the evolving skies.
I love the wisdom of the geese as they fly.

I like to imagine I embody it all.
It's a good day. Isn't it?
The page turns.
Fifty-Nine.