The bitter wind whipped up in the past couple of days brought to mind the poem by Sara Coleridge in which November is characterised thus:
Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
And while I was thinking about something else, I doodled:
I do like the seasons to be distinct, and each month to make its particular presence felt. It is monotonous weather which gets under my skin. It will doubtless have been noted that there are no leaves in this image; that's where the stitching (if this gets that far) will come in.