Beneath a sky grown newly vast, where geese call, winged witches, the trees are stripped and naked; their squirrels wear blue vair.
Branches above, branches below. The Antlered also wears his winter blue, his bull-neck engorged with pounding maleness. He quivers, eager to rut his does and witches.
A golden carpet is laid for us, flecked with browns and russets. The cider is poured, the table spread with all the wealth of Summer. The fire is laid and ready to light; the skeleton band tunes up.