November 4: Crows at Dusk

I've had better days. I got to work late because allergies had me feeling low this morning. The disappointing election results defeating the gay marriage bill--and reading all the messages of pain and sadness from friends gay and straight around the country--certainly didn't help raise my spirits. I'm still adjusting to the fact that by the end of my work day it's full night outside, pitch black dark. I can't even see the way to my car without the aid of that little flashlight on my key chain. And my husband's away, so I came home to a chilly, empty house to microwave a lame frozen dinner for myself (my husband is the cook in the family).

I don't say all this to vent and whine about my life or about politics--I don't want this to be that kind of blog (though some may argue that everything I write is about my life in some way, and/or that everything is political). Instead, I include these details about my day as a way to explain the stark mood that settled on me at about 4:30 p.m., when dusk began to creep in behind the increasingly bare branches, and the passing cries of the local crows sounded almost desperate. Personal mood affects the way you perceive the world. And how you express it creatively. So here is my bleak November afternoon, distilled into 17 syllables:

Crows fly past, cawing

as the afternoon deepens--

dark feathers, branches.

(Because I don't like to linger in darkness for too long, however, I hasten to add that I actually enjoy this particular frozen dinner (Ethnic Gourmet's palak paneer) and am looking forward to curling up on the couch with my cat to watch Pedro Martinez pitch in Game 6 of the World Series tonight.)