November slips in with damp hush and wind, ending autumn as winter first knocks. Leaden skies brood, yet dawns and dusks flare with last embers of color. Gales strip cherries and ash bare overnight, revealing stark vistas; the first frost turns unseen multitudes of insects to crystal, while Londoners notice only drooping pots. Underfoot, leaves crunch and rustle; in the canopy, the wind sings while crows and gulls fall quiet. Wildfowl gather; owls and foxes voice the night; by month’s end, gardens find their song again. Scents bloom in the hush: sweet, wet decay, clean earth, woodsmoke, bruised greens—mugwort, pineappleweed, herb Robert’s mousey note—offset by ivy’s tang and the surprising fruity breath of salvias, with viburnum and mahonia close behind. Step outside and follow your senses.
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