"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year." ~ Emily Dickinson
Day three of seemingly endless rain and gusty winds - I have two saucepans catching water from a weeping roof, one in the dining room and one in the entryway (I've already tripped over the latter countless times). But I'm content. The wind is softy whistling its way through every lean crack of this old farm house, giving it a cosy, haunting ambiance. There's still a handful of mustard colored leaves clinging to their sinewy branches outside my window, if I look up from just the right angle, the leaves appear to be scorching the dark grey sky.
I also have a healthy stock of wild mushroom bisque from the local bakery, another pot of fresh coffee on tap, and about
"Après moi, le déluge."











