It's November, for sure.

There's a look that November has, a color palette dominated by brown, grey, and taupe, slashed with black accents. The last stubborn leaves cling, brown and crumpled, to the tree branches. Brownish haze of wood smoke mingles with greyish mist under pale grey skies. The grass is still green but turning tan in patches, under fallen leaves of burgundy and brown and faded gold. The bare trees in the woods, their black branches sharply etched in the foreground, fade off into a soft frieze of taupe and grey. The sun is weaker, farther away, so even when it shines it doesn't warm but only wanly illuminates. The wind, authoritative, hurries the dead leaves against fencelines and into corners. The day comes reluctantly; the night comes quickly. The air smells of smoke and rain, mud and wet wood. Time winds down toward the end of another year that now seems old, ancient, moldering away.