November in Light - Poemes & Diaporama Website L'Arié...Joie

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  November in Light

In November, nature announces that it is preparing to brave the winter,
Always still shimmering and warm she becomes numb over the severe weather,
The days shorten, the first frosts illuminate bays and leaves in strips,
Whether it's sunny or wet it's the last days of festivals for frogs.

The countryside is caulked under mountains of ruffled leaves,
Oyez braves people the horny wind Brumaire blows its cold
When the forest is relieved of its flamboyant attires with wings,
Facing strange white scrolls floating on surreal wavy ponds.

The freshness of the morning, the perfume of the wilted leaves and the damp earth,
The hurried evening darkness, as much proof that autumn has taken its quarters,
This is the period when you can perceive the trumpets thrown by the cranes,
Flying in squadrons in V they inscribe in the sky undulations of regatta.

In the countryside haunted by the ghosts of the fog,
The arbutus with evergreen leaves illuminates heaths and scrub,
Offering its scarlet pompoms, hairy as a chard,
And its pretty little ivory bells grouped in exquisite panicles.

November that makes snowing the scorched leaves,
Made flying rooks and crows, larks and starlings,
Hailing the sky in the company of the bandworm,
When on the ground the squirrel, a small red dwarf, picks up its nuts and acorns polished.

True sentinel of forested environments and always on the alert, worried,
The jay of the oaks by its creeping cries warns the hosts of the forest,
In autumn he makes his supplies of acorns that he piles in his throat,
In order to bury them in the soil, the forgotten will participate in the reforestation forest.

The St Hubert celebrates the hunters, it is the time of the migration of the goshawks,
But there is one who, by his aerial prowess, attacks them in the air,
The goshawk kills its prey with its powerful greenhouses
On the ground, this daytime raptor is the terror of the rabbits, melting on them like a bomb.

On the Pyrenean peaks the isards in rut play horn,
Mane bristles, the wild boars plant their defenses without limit,
Close to a plowed field, the variable nozzle, perched on a picket,
Attracted by a mulot based on him all greenhouses deployed.

While raising his head in the beech forest, the finch of trees holds the top of the poster,
In his variegated adornment of an old vinous pink Monsieur has a blue gray cap,
As for Madame her grayish beige plumage is duller, greedy rich,
Honoring the image "cheerful like a finch", they dissect them with a meticulous beak.

In the forest the holly illuminates the dark undergrowth,
Leaves glistening festooned, its vermilion fruits make happy,
As for the ivy, symbol of love and fidelity,
I die or I attach myself, that is its truth.

Through its suckers it parasites many trees including apple trees,
It also draws water and mineral salts from the sap of aspen and poplar,
These hosts are thus slowed in their growth and bear less fruit,
Offering a food supplement to the passerines, for the nine year it is the feast of the Mistletoe.

In the gardens, salmon opaline corollas little commonplace,
The Christmas Rose plays fatal beauties,
Attractive the crested wren, olive green feather ball,
Chirp with throat extended, its golden crest disheveled.

November by all time,
The wood in the fireplace is shining.
                   Jelly from November,
 Adieu the tender grass.

                                                                             L’ ARIÉ…JOIE

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