I came across this poem and thought it a good one to share with you, even though it references September. On the East Coast, September is very much like November here.
Day
On a cold late
September morning,
wider than sky-wide
discs of lit-shale clouds
skim the hills,
crescents, chords
of sunlight
now and then fracturing
the long peripheries:
the crow flies
silent
on course but destinationless,
floating:
hurry, hurry,
the running light says,
while anything remains.
A. R. Ammons