We have been having gray days moistened by the tiniest pinpricks of drizzle you can imagine, so that the entire outside world feels like a cool kiss. By the time it is a little past four the sky has darkened into a deep blue stain (never black, because this is a big city and light pollution is a fact of life). I thought I would be sad to see the sun go, but today we rented a Zipcar and drove (up)downtown to collect some Thanksgiving-feast makings, and I have something to tell you:

Chicago is beautiful as autumn shivers into winter. The buildings shimmer silver in the fog, and the city’s harsh brightness softens into an appealing hesitancy. Every shape and outline is atomized, every vista melts into a blurry pointillist painting. And though the trees themselves are now all but bare, street lamps stand in their place. Their tall metal poles disappear completely, leaving only disembodied orange fires glowing atop each one—every light cradled in a fine cloud of mist and hovering over the road like a bower.

Chicago is beautiful.