Learning to Love November   That smell again — have we been here before? The oaks are bare, with nothing more to tell us, the maples and birches are done. Story time: before we fell, before we fell so far behind, we knew what we were ready for, we were vigilant, we had grown used to that glow in the mist out ahead, like firemen in a city made of stone. Now the beech leaves are the only ones left, curled up and rattling dryly in the wind, the sound of sand inside a skull. The gift of the season is absence, muted hints of what was once alive and green and good and worthy of our trust, our gratitude.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2013