November tosses and turns, moans in hellish tones. It coughs rain and sneezes hail. It chews on leaves that have dropped to their knees at its feet. November picks them up, then spits them out as mud. It complains that October has not kept his promise and has been defeated. There it stands at the threshhold of Winter. It glances over its shoulder in misery. There is no turning back. The end – of the year – is near.