November is a month with nothing to say.
The quiet air condenses around light,
Bends it and breaks it,
Sizzles on the electricity.

The end of that month was covered in snow,
And so was the highway, the 90 and 80.
I flew by bushes and boulders,
And didn't speak all day.

November had nothing to say to me,
Mouth caught as it was beneath its muffler of snow.
My headlights pushed at cold wind full of water,
Like the inside of a scarf, wet from my breath's condensation.

In this dripping silence, I'm antsy for December.
The snow will settle into a uniform by then,

And Christmas in Cleveland will feel easy.
I will saw an arm off a snow crusted evergreen,
Peel an orange, sending fireworks of juice flying.
Breathe in, and I'll have so much to say.