“November,” Friend, Nov. 1978, inside back cover
November
The woods were quiet where I walked;
No songbirds sang, no squirrels talked.
The leaves were crumbled on the ground,
Not rustling with a treetop sound.
The stream that bubbled in the fall
Was ice and didn’t speak at all.
I heard some footsteps on the stone;
They were just mine and mine alone.