At home for Thanksgiving break, I wrote the following:
Across the road, the ridge is the horizon, visible now because all the leaves have fallen. Between the shaking fingers of the trees, the sky rises up orange and gray and white and blue like a watercolor painting. Much to be thankful for.
I am thankful for family and friends, of course, but also for the little things that keep me going from one day to the next: Tea when I'm alone. James Bond movies. Girls with glasses. Dim lamplight. Interpol. "When I Heard at the Close of the Day" by Walt Whitman. Walden. Pablo Neruda. Clouds and leafless trees.
I have much to be thankful for.