The first frost comes suddenly, leaving green tomatoes translucent and mapped in lacey veins. Each crevice and cleft is tangled in spider silk—in the waterspout, the Orb-Weaver’s catches the sun, stretching a rainbow bridge into the clear blue yonder. The veil is thin.
Shadow gathers earlier everyday, perfuming the air in woodsmoke and the cool exhale of fallen leaves. October’s full moon is for the hunter—the fields are clear, and the game is fat. Go into the bright night, and collect what you will need. The winter will be cold and dark.