Last night I fell asleep washed in the light of the waxing Harvest Moon. It'll be full at the beginning of Viable Paradise. The song of the spheres sings strongly again. The time of winter approaches. Soon it will be story-telling season, the spice of smoke in the communal fire. Northern-blue clouds have been pilling up on their trip south, harrowing the geese in their flights of v's. Small birds gather to reforge their flocking contract and grow as one individual in flight. The land remembers, in titan's dream, that snows will soon wash over him in tidal bloom and the echoes of our ancestors will ring through the hearth fires. If you're a believer in such things, power grows as Selene rounds, wanes as she does. That week will be full power.
October is shaping up again to be Write-tober. This is the third year in a row for this event. The first week (and two weekends) is Viable Paradise. The next weekend is Hamster weekend. The weekend after that is Feral Writers Retreat. The only weekend that doesn't have a specific writing theme is Halloween.
Halloween is now referred to in polite decorations as "Harvest" and it is that. Our decorations show pumpkins, corn, apples and all the late fall has to offer. But those are symbols of Oktoberfest which celebrates the harvest of the fields. Oktoberfest, however, isn't in our present October, but late August and early September. Halloween's Harvest is a different culling. It is the animal harvest. The veil grows thin as the cross-quarter passes, further assailed by the passing of the animals until it is thinner than tissue. Now is the time the dead of the past year travel over and the world is made new.
And this wrestles in my head as a coyote chuckles outside my window. Selene's pool grows deep as the ocean whose merest tip I'll cross in five days. Words like steelhead fish swim in the dappled waters flashing their intent. Deeper shadows move down there, driving the world with powerful flukes. Their perturbations stir my thoughts.
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