“November,” Friend, Nov. 1978, inside back cover


    The woods were quiet where I walked;

    No songbirds sang, no squirrels talked.

    The leaves were crumbled on the ground,

    Not rustling with a treetop sound.

    The stream that bubbled in the fall

    Was ice and didn’t speak at all.

    I heard some footsteps on the stone;

    They were just mine and mine alone.