Tompson's November

“So that’s how it’s going to end?” Tompson asked out loud.
There was no body around, and he had been alone like this for a bit of a long time. It had only been one or a few minutes, maybe ten minutes, but his brain was working frantically. He would like to have imagined that he was as frantic as a boy who swam too deep and was coming up too short with not enough air.
The wind blew the leaves all around, which showed Tompson little of their promised autumn colors. Brown seemed to be the fashionable black of this month. So be it. Brown could be black.
November was hardly a month of fall; rather it would properly fit in winter. It felt, now, like a dirty brown, snow-less Christmas Eve, he thought. Christmas Eve, Tompson thought, didn’t belong in November.