Today I saw a man on Main Street wearing a Santa hat.
Shoppers burst from craft stores, arms laden with garlands, baubles and greeting cards.
Men on ladders pulled down Hallowe'en lights and strung up red and green ones.
And Thanksgiving? A few chipped pumpkins and porcelain gobblers on the sale shelf. Has November been swept aside for a few extra weeks of Christmas cheer?
I hurried home, brought down the tree and handmade ornaments from the attic.
Swapped the spooky bunting for a tartan-bowed wreath, played The Nutcracker and began trimming the tree.
Dawn's First Light by Joan Currie In the early morning, I open my eyes and stare at the light peeping through the shutters.
Then I shiftmy gaze to the ceiling, and see herds of zebra ghosts resting there.
But when I blink, they are gone! A stronger light now streams into my room, its fingers, elongated exclamation points reach across my bedclothes and beckon me to rise.
Every morning I hear the persistent cooing of mourning doves.
They line up on a telephone wire, like a chorus of maidens calling to their lovers who have gone off to war, fearing they won’t return.
This morning I spied three doves outside my kitchen window and was taken aback by their heavy bodies, ferocious eyes and beaks.
Were these the same doves?
Shortly after, I stood beneath my oak tree, raking leaves, when an explosion of a hundred or so doves burst from its branches straight up into the air.
The sharp, metallic clatter and whirring of wings seemed almost sinister. I instinctively ducked.
The flock swept up my three doves as it headed south toward Texas or Mexico.
