Our waning November sun turns his face from us
And hides a weary head beneath the cover of cloud.
But this is not the dewy cloud that bears the promise of late Autumn rain.
This is the dry haze spit from the fires that blaze to the North and South of us.
This is the haze that bathes us in yet another layer of awareness.
The haze that speaks of our shared existence
Beneath the one, indivisible and sacred sky.