What, asks the poem, do they see in their windows? An impeachable president-elect, assails of emails, tap dance Patience. Tomorrow it will be derelict, already. French’s limited vocabulary relies on feel of accents, moods of vowels. Novembre is not so much November as an emotional theatre of falling leaves and passing houses. What do they see through their window, continues the poem, as the train accelerates? Friends over the water fending earthquakes, their family up to the usual tricks, a colleague with complications. Today is more than their reflection. Words used since schoolchildren start a longing that speaks of home.