November evening

The evening crept up, November, slowly,
lights were lit in the windows of the village.
The smell of manure and fine hay
mixed with the breath of early winter.

Quiet in the area, just barking dogs,
somewhere behind the river screams goat.
I, in a quilted jacket and mint earflaps,
slowly striding home.

Snow has already piled up decently,
shoveled a snow-covered yard.
The day burned out like a lit match,
autumn dusk appeared as a thief.

He stole the light! In blue silhouettes,
sinking: trees, houses and snow.
How strange, and, even, ridiculous,
see all this in the canvas of November.