This Moment - November 13, 2010 8:06 A.M.

A small plane is buzzing the sky like a fly trapped in a window well, its drone an unceasing white noise until its small death silences it. The trees have yet to relent and release their frost-limned leaves. Their stubbornness against the inevitable is a dark mirror. My daughter's cat is protesting in the kitchen, its yowls making note of some unforgivable infraction. Morning silence again. The air is dense with the knowledge of the ending of light. The sun is in retreat. An oyster-colored cloud is visible through the tangle of branches. It slowly diffuses into a faded denim. A crow caw-caws a greeting and I feel hopefulness unfurl its long wing under my ribs. Perhaps the coming season of darkness will not be so heavy. A train is summoning its arrival and it too causes another fluttering, the small bird inside me stirring. My dog growls at the world outside the window. A small bird flits from fence to tree.