The time of the season

With a sinister chuckle, Autumn reaches out to the south and touches it with her icy fingers. As if she wants to say, "I'm still here, and I still rule," she ices the air to the best of her weak power in the southern lands. She still fails to nullify the latitude; the south returns her evil chuckle with a sarcastic laugh of its own.

Autumn is co-regent with the night, but she doesn't mind; it... forces the area to abide by her rules, to adjust to her patterns, to accept the occasional nightly chill. She accepts this small victory and might be able to hold her sway over the area if the conditions are right. It remains to be seen if the sky remains in its dark shroud or if the winds manage to draw back the curtains and let the sun into the room.

Autumn may be a flake, a weakling in the south, but she is no fool. She'll get the most out of her short reign, in whatever way she can.

 

 

 

From my Forthcoming book, Meditations of an Old Man