Mythos

The summer was lush with death. It turned the hare into a dervish, the raccoon to a pantomime villain, made the mouse sing in the jaws of predators. The woods are bare now trees rattle, bird wings also rattle. Rattles ring like buoy bells. October and gourds glow. The wind brings witches wearing skeleton corsets, they ride upon the clattering racks of filleted lamb. Petticoats are tattered by thorns; the wind-riddled, return as wraiths in puffer-jackets. By December the crouching woods crunch like catacombs. Reckless children are lost in the heaped bones of fairytales. Mothers tag the young like puppy dogs; vaccinate them against dismal-eyed dawns.