Home
Biography
About Site
Family
Richwood
College
Math/Science
WOBC
Broadcast
Design
Images
Sports
Poetry
Romance
Opinion
Feedback

Rain in November
Written November 1964

Submitted in English composition class February 3, 1965

 

November is a sad time of year.
The trees stand cold and bare, their leaves long since blown away;
the overcast sky warns of the long, dark winter to come;
the day which never seemed to get well begun
fades away into night after only a few short hours.
The year is old and gray.

One foggy, rainy night
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the dark school building,
looking up at a street light that seemed to share my loneliness.
The light turned the tiny droplets of rain to silver mist
as they fell silently about me.
Black limbs of bare trees hung broodingly over the scene,
silhouetted in the fog, glistening dimly in the rain.
I stood for a while in the dampness and waited.

A Ford hardtop with a loud engine
turned at the traffic light at the end of the street and came in my direction.
Its headlights lit up the fog rather unsteadily as it accelerated past me,
then came to a stop at the other end of the street. 
The car paused there a moment, 
its red taillights mirrored in the wet pavement; 
then, with a poorly-muffled roar
that carried easily to my ears through the stillness of the night,
it turned to the right and was gone.
And the rain continued.

Rain is music in the minor mode.

          In the spring, it may be as wildly animated as a gypsy dance,
          pelting down everywhere,
          flowing away madly,
          carrying the mud with it in a frenzied rush;

     in the summer, it may come with a roar and a crash and a torrent,
     shouting out its thunderous prophecies of doom to the world;

but in November the rain is a plaintive song,
subdued,
gray,
sighing wistfully through the mist.

          I walked to my car and slowly drove home.


Photo:  2000

 

TBT

Back to Top
More RichwoodMore Richwood
More PoetryMore Poetry
Read Comments