The rainy days are more common as we move into November. Light pings of rain scatter on the roof and you can almost see the ground breathing in all the moisture it has craved through a dry summer. The eternally damp weather is something totally new for me. The abundance of green life trumps the overcast clouds in my mind. The evergreens are living up to their name, and below them the forest floor is alive. Mushrooms have sprouted in all shapes and sizes. I've eaten my first wild ones (shaggy parasol and chanterelle) and attended my first mycological fair. It was full of fungi and club members, both colorful and diverse.
My favorite display of life are the piles of shredded branches that I endlessly transport with my tractor to lay down the mulch for new growing areas. During mornings on the tractor, the drizzle and/or mist hangs low and keeps everything comfortingly cool. My wool plaid finally wraps me up rather than sweats me out. The diesel engine chugs along as a portable space heater. But the mechanical heat pales in comparison to the natural composting that gets scooped up. The piles of chipped wood seem inorganic enough, until I dig in. With each scoop a plume of steam erupts from the volcano of decomposition. As I drive with a smoking pile in front of me, heat washes over in waves. The deep scents of pine, cedar, and life regrown join the mulchy mists.
In short I could get used to the weather that might seem morose at first. Granted it is supposed to stay from now until June and I'm skipping town in November. It might be better to only have so much of a good thing.