The wheel spins, a ray of light hits mist, and rainbows sparkle as the storm clouds come in.

Three days ago, the light started fading. With it, something inside of me began slipping. You might think I’m falling downhill, but I’m only folding inward to where the warmth is the greatest. In the darker days, we have to notice the glowing of the light more if only because it catches our eyes out here.

The thought always occurs, from training and pre-programming, in terms of rising and falling. The sun and the seasons, night and the autumn, leaves and branches, hopes and dreams. We climb to succeed. We fall short.

I’m reclaiming this motion.
Instead, I will twist and turn and fold myself into smaller and smaller dimensions. To you on the surface, it may appear as though I’m fading, falling fast. But I am moving in closer to the warmth of the center. The core is glowing hot, but out on the outer rim it is growing cold with a chill wind. Time to come back home.

This is the autumnul spirit collecting, saving, protecting the spread seeds of the summertime. The harvest was small this year, and some of the better fruits have gone bad. We missed out on some aspects of future planning, but we’re approaching a small stockpile of things we’ll be excited to open in the icy dead of winter — like little presents to ourselves of rememberences of seasons and moments past.

Come sam hain, we will dance with teasing spirits while eating peppered pickles and sun-ripe tomatoes floating in a suspension of seasoned oil. And the heat of the sour capsaicin will scare the teasing terrors away. We’ll burn candles like fires and remember the bons we lit while coyotes and locked up feral dogs called, gave chase, and ran along side us for the wind of it.

In the growing cold, I feel like there is something I have left behind, something I had — but lost. When I sleep and dream, I know the names of these things like shadows, now fading, in my heart and mind. I try not to repeat them too often in waking because the warmth of those shadows alone can, even still, do me some good. The embers underneath the dirt and ash can stay warm all throughout the night. I’ll watch the moon phase through these chilly nights and prepare for moments when the frost will lock my rubber tires up against the concrete and rocks.

Short days make for short moments, spurs in the sun through clouds. Rianbows bend across stone black skies as the first hints of the storm wet your nose, the edge of your hat, your tongue.

I am getting used to saying goodbye to the light.
I have to realize other things, faces, places, games — go along.
I can hold them, like summer parties and summer love, in my core throughout the cold.
The life that burst through me during the growing turns will sustain this breaking heart.
From hibernation, we’ll return, unless the world goes off before then.

Into the dark, we go.
You have no choice but to go. Evolution will not let us stop, for as far as we have gone. So many of us cry in the shadows now because our heart and blood remembers. Safe, in controlled boxes, we think we may have forgot.
But no, we are wrong. Allow the change and chilly wind to wash across your face.
Or, do a little preparation for the coming dark, at least.

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