Novemberly thinking.

As this short, sad November day begins to draw quietly to an unremarkable close, the sun comes out and fills the garden with a strange, wet, yellow light and twilight fragments of the mind of the poet Yeats are caught like stray wisps of cotton in the branches of the Yew tree. 

It is indeed an evening that calls for whiskey to be sipped quite sedulously while seated on the mound of earth under the Yew tree, a place where cattle will not linger, nor will fortune point her fickle finger in my sorry direction no matter how petulantly I beseech her. 

I am of course not in the habit of beseeching ladies petulantly, but seated under a Yew tree reading Yeats, sipping whiskey in the rain, well, stranger things have been known to occur.