JOY ALONG THE WAY: TUCKING IN A NOVEMBER MORNING

Some November pre-dawn mornings I stepped outside to be greeted by a soft breeze from the south. This breeze is unlike any other breeze of the year. It is as if some invisible velvet fabric is brushing against my face. It gently lifts a lock of hair and lets it down again, slowly. It is summer stopping at the exit door to turn around and give me a last loving look.

The whole morning is soft too. There are no leftover crickets to knit up their little tunes. No bird song. Distant dogs haven't yet awakened. The only sound from where I am is the traffic on highway I-55 to the west. At this time of day it is muffled as if trying not to wake up nearby sleepers. The timid roar is comforting. As Laura Beggs said when she lived in the big house in the orchard, "It's far enough away that it doesn't bother me, yet near enough to tell me there are people around."As dawn brightens I can see the stark outlines of the trees. With leaves having entered their next cycle of life, one can see the ravages of last May's storm. The trees look like soldiers returning from some terrible battle. Some arms completely gone, others left with only stubs. Last November the surrounding trees were like an intricate interwoven filigree, each touching and helping support one another. Now some stand alone. But springs will come again and they will reach out for each other and clasp arms. Even now there are buds reaching for the occasion.

My hanging pots of flowers are all down, emptied, and the pots put to soak in a tub of water to remove the last grimy encrustations. Well, not all. I still have one pot of spider plant gently swinging in the wind. I've taken off suitable cuts of the little "spiders" to ensure next year's continuation. I think I'm leaving the one pot outside just to see how long it can survive the cold, protected as it is by the surrounding autumn clematis.

The lifeless feather ball swings from the ceiling near my typewriter. It moves occasionally as the air from the heat registers strikes it. It is sort of like a caged bird and makes me feel a bit sorrowful for having brought it in. But I can take it back any day to have a wind frolic. It doesn't freeze. Sam Blackwell might call the feather ball a creation from a different muse.

I gather a little pile of pine cones to heap at the bottom of the back porch steps. Do you know they pout and close up in a rainy, cool day, but open their "petals" when the sun strikes them? This is the first time I've done this. It will be interesting to see if, when the really cold weather comes, they just close house for the season.

New little patches of jonquils will dot the yard next spring. Viola and I put some out as late as last week. Having forgotten where some were, we sliced into some bulbs but beat a hasty retreat, hoping healing will take place.

Finally, I got the row of nonblooming peonies moved. Shade had encroached upon their sunny location and they responded negatively. Now they are in the sun again, but I don't expect any blooms for several years. They dislike being moved.

All this activity reminds me that November's moon is called the beaver moon. The beaver senses winter is coming and is "busy as a beaver" repairing his dams, to make the water back up to fill the ponds. He repairs his home and lays in a supply of food. Sensible beaver.

REJOICE!Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.