Every year,
accompanied by a change in the weather,
The ginkgo reverses its magnetic field
And drops a sheet of gold at its feet
Like a metronome shedding time,
Like a skeleton shedding cellular richness
To stand like a lightning rod for the sun.

Robert Paschell

EPHEMERIS
The Second-Spring Moon waxes throughout the period, entering its second quarter at 11:03 p.m. on November 5. Rising in the middle of the day, setting well after dark, this new crescent moon lies in the west every evening of the week, accompanied by Venus (low on the western horizon) and Jupiter (high in the southwest).

Daylight Savings Time ends at 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, November 2. Sunrise, which was occurring in the village even later than during the last days of December, suddenly reverts to its early March time of close to 7:00 a.m.; however, the sun now sets at its winter time, within half an hour of 5:00 p.m., and the evenings will be dark until the arrival of Early Spring on February 18.

JOURNAL
    Standing at the end of October, I hold fast to remnants and the emotions that stick to them, feelings that reflect the things I see. From the alley: the last two apples still hanging from apple tree, the shedding of the maple two houses further south, the wilting of the final purple fall crocus planted maybe half a century ago by Frank’s sister, the blackening of the tall goldenrod behind Mateo’s old house.
    In the yard: the first reddening of the oakleaf hydrangea, the withering of Japanese knotweed leaves yellowing of the Jerusalem artichoke leaves, the hosta leaves and the wild asparagus, the blackening of the dahlia stalks and the impatiens burned by frost, the resilience of the last maroon viburnum fragments, the two autumn violets hidden among the sweet William foliage, the stubborn last red roses and golden coneflowers, the steady feeding of chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, sparrows, cardinals, finches.   
    Down High Street: a shedding magnolia, a gilded ginkgo, the deep, transparent orange of the Danielsons’ maple tree and the deep red of Lil’s burning bush, black privet berries appearing as their foliage thing, the ground covered by leaves from the corner sugar maples, grass by the pavement still glowing in the low November sun, crab apple tree berries firm and fat.
    In the woods: Canopy pretty well gone. Most all the flowers have died back, but foliage is bright on violets, garlic mustard, waterleaf, deadnettle, celandine, smooth-leafed dock, cinquefoil, sweet rocket, yarrow. And Diane reports a fresh tall bellflower in bloom along the river, south near where the swinging bridge used to be.
    A book that I am reading reminds me I am not my thoughts. But I am not so sure. The verbal and spiritual construct of autumn requires a certain commitment to collection and assimilation. For the duration of synthesis, I reside in a private cell of impressions that gives form and meaning to me from its pieces.