Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Summer's Last Dance
Beneath a sky grown newly vast, where geese call, winged witches, the trees are stripped and naked; their squirrels wear blue vair.
Branches above, branches below. The Antlered also wears his winter blue now, his bull-neck engorged with pounding maleness. He quivers, eager to rut his does and witches.
A golden carpet is laid for us, flecked with browns and russets. The cider is poured, the table spread with all the wealth of Summer. The fire is laid and ready to light; the skeleton band tunes up.
Soon comes Winter, season of want: frost, ice, and snow.
But for now, let us dance one final dance for Summer that is gone: one last fling by pumpkin-shine before we descend into dark.
Tonight is Summer's last dance, my friends.
Let the party begin.
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