Orion stalks a chestnut fattened moon; his bow is tuned, his arrow nocked, he watches for the wide angle that invites the shaft of Ash home to the Mark––the One which only he knows. Shire deer drag their heavy shadows from the Autumn-thinned woods, into the moon-flooded meadow. Their obsidian eyes wordlessly comprehend the alabaster orb, as they breathe the intoxicating night air, scented with blended fragrances of musk and rust.
Bitter sweet October, you’re a melancholy artist who, stuck with a fit of madness, slung a bright harvest of color across the land. We’ll stroll through your galleries, remark on your genius, then misapprehend the blood price of your hand.