The heat is on.

After holding out until the fourth of November, we finally gave in and turned on our heat. It was a brisk 60 degrees in our brick apartment (we live in a former railroad freighthouse) yesterday. I made mulled cider, which helped, but sitting under a blanket with cold noses, we surrendered. I walked across the room and threw the switch.

The low hum began after a minute or two. In five, our noses had thawed.

And it's a good thing we turned it on, because today is a grey day with many clouds, many gusts, and few sunbeams. There have been snowflakes also. But not the friendly ones that come in happy blanketing hoards---these are the solitary ones, beaten and driven before a merciless wind, dashed against the brick and stone, shattered into microscopic dust. Their hard fragments, too small to see, fall to rest without a eulogy among the scattering remnants of leaves. Only the wind whines out a doleful dirge.

Nights that follow a day like this one call for more mulled cider. And the lights must be kept on. And candles, too. Draw the curtains tight, speak not of evil things. Smear the lamb's blood thick upon the door.