This point in November, before everything begins to build, this is a spare and beautiful time of year. I remember the Midwest in November, dove brown and gray and dust-colored, with the black trunks of trees, branches empty against the very pale blue sky.

Here in the Pacific Northwest it had been raining most of the morning, and dark; driving home from running some errands the rain had stopped and light was coming from behind me, illuminating the very green cedars and hemlocks; the sky was filled with cresting, smoke-colored clouds, with a break in them—edged in white, and framing a glimpse of powder blue.

As a time of year, it’s really very quiet: wind, maybe; there can be some truly incredible storms, but just as often they can come up silently—light rain gradually increasing, snow falling with no warning.

An incredible contrast to the noise we’re about to start creating in on our side of things.