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A day in November is often born,
on a frosty, foggy, chilly morn.
With the smell of wood smoke in the air,
while ruby leaves fall here and there.
The early light is soft, but yields,
a holy look to woods and fields.
A silent prelude heralds the day,
for song birds mostly flew away,
to somewhere north or south or west,
leaving behind their empty nests.
In November, without a rush,
days are born in a silver hush,
like a precious gift, for all the living-
Let all of November be called Thanksgiving!
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