November days stretch out
one week into the next
like banks of mist
flights of fog
peeking in and out
of thick or thin expanse of clouds
in shifting densities
pearly   silver   even bright
but persistently grey   gray   grey
smooth or like lumpen porridge
a soggy perpetual seeming twilight
no matter the time of day
into which are mixed
some welcome surprises  

A trio of self-assured
preened and portly-fluffed blue jays
one in particular who flits
from branch to branch in the bare lilac
just beyond the Widow Wyile’s dining table
then pops down to the ground
            zips back up again
slips through the air to the next bush
darts its head about
pecks here and there
inspecting and observing
while the Widow does the same
appreciatively noting the confidence
and aplomb they all exude
their silver-blue winter waistcoats sleek
caps and tail feathers blue
like a sunny day sky
their snowy white rumps
so different than a hightailing deer
darting through a glade
though they too
dart off in pursuit of each other
or some inclination we cannot know
their reviving colour outdone
only by a fine fully red cardinal passing through
after resting a moment between two jays
            splendid tableau on bare grey branch
as if to say
bright colours are alive and well
less prolific perhaps

so all the more remarkable
            heartening
            us into winter