The last embers of the ninth month flicker and expire. September packs its bags. We hunker down and hope the harvest has been good. We touch a match to the wicks. Our root cellars neatly packed, our cider mills a-turning, we wait and watch the darkening horizon for the next month to bring what it may.
Now the lights must come from within our cottages, our chateaux, our caves both sea and non-. September brushes summer with its fingertips; soon we stand only in its penumbra. Instead, now, bonfires, hearths, candles (taper and tea), even mildly dazzling company, any luster against the dark.
Am I being dramatic? Mayhap. But does thou recall last winter? I cannot shake it. Cailleach the Winter-Bringer was raging out of conTROL. I am all for hag shit, but there are only so many vortexes we can be asked to entertain before our hospitality runs perilously dry.
September is all but spent. Light the peat fire and get me a hot drink.