The cold leaches into bones turning fingers and toes numb
while plumes of frost dance on each breath and Jack readies for the coming
snows.
Leaves of green shed their emerald coats to assume the reds
and golds, the beacons to the coming hunt of old.
Loki’s army, jokesters that they are, prepare in nooks and crannies
for the mischief that must be.
Children feel the anticipation and mistake it for the joy of
costumes to hide their innocent hearts.
Fires spring to life to chase away the chill, to hold the
last heat and light of the growing times, to endure the dead.
Whispers fly on the winds of change, a call, a chant and
stir to action. The Hunt is coming, the time is near.
The curtain falls, the veil is thin and the blood moon rises
for the games to begin.
On All Hallows Eve, the children laugh while goblins dance
in the streets and witches take that leap.
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