We had the friskiest dawn this morning. Out moving the cars before work, shifting wife’s car out to the street, backing mine out of the driveway, reparking hers, it was impossible to ignore the frisky pink light, the bubble of unearned springtime in the warm air. November here is grey and cold, wet and foggy, black, brown and the muted green of stuffy felt and decay. Yet here were pastels arcing from horizon to horizon and flocks of winter crows swooping like swallows while it lasts. Tomorrow, cold again. The way it should be.