Low clouds the colour of cream of mushroom soup leak flurries to add to the blanket of the first snow that already covers the fields on either side of the two-lane highway I drive twice daily.
Evergreen trees carry a mantle of soft whiteness, while the branches of the leafless trees are limned in silver, a few stray red leaves turned into a pink candyfloss confection.
I chat with a stranger as we fill our tanks, discussing winter jackets, the price of gas in the '80's (playing a game of "I remember when" one-upmanship), and whether the switch from imperial to metric was a government conspiracy (him: yes, me: no).
A different stranger, a lovely blonde woman, stops me just outside the parking lot: I have forgotten to replace my gas cap, and she has fixed it for me.
I get to work late, but safe, thanks to my four new tires, and schlepp my stuff to my desk, including my shoes in a bag, because it is November in Southwestern Ontario, and time to wear winter boots.