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
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