One by one, acorns trickle from their parents in a slow, steady hail whose sound is amplified by the intervals of silence. Some fall to the grist of stony ground, some to fallow. Some are scurried away, stored in shallow graves against a dark and needful day, or slumber until awakened by the warming fires of spring.
The first flame of autumn blossoms in a tiny, tangerine rose, its reddish-orange petals curling back toward yellow at their edges. A short-lived, daylight candle echoing the lantern that guides our spirits home.
As evenlight spreads toward evenfall, numina and peris grow restless in their garden. We sacrifice fresh herbs to ease their dreamless sleep and mark that we remember. In camera obscura, their unwinged avatars purr contentedly toward the living, an admonition that darkness always follows evening, a promise morning always follows night.© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III
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