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Warm November The sickle moon is rising in the November sky. The wind's warm. My hands are cold. The clouds are spitting leaves the streetlights bathe you in an ethereal glow It's too warm for the season I'm hoping for snow. The dark decrepit night is looking dangerously lean. The town drunkard is causing a scene He's half jealous of every woman he's ever seen. But who has seen the sadness of the pelting rain? Adam Tod Leverton email: Blog: MySpace: Facebook: Adam Tod Leverton Twitter: @atleverton

Warm November