A murder of crows is massing on our block, as they often do this time of year. The caw-caw-calling shakes us at sunset and dawn.
Tonight, as a tonic for hunger, melacholy and a feeling of alone-ness, I opened one of my hoarded bottles of "Holiday Spice Wine", which my cron(i)es and I save for this time of the year. None of them are here, so I heated just enough for one and am holding it now in my glass. It is still too warm to sip, but the aroma intoxicates. It's sweet and spicy and full of speech, somehow: "Calm down, now. Feelings are not facts. You are minutes from company, a month from actual information. Live in the present moment. Sip."