dead wood in winter

last night i heard Hecate and her Hounds come roaring through the trees. this morning when i walked the puppies, they were skittish, easily spooked. dead branches littered the ground, and the trees were mostly stripped. the leaves swirled in russet whispers across the ground.

last night i worked through two chapters of jack, slicing through the manuscript with the cold clean abandon of hecate on a mission. i have an invitation on my calendar, for an evening to celebrate the element of fire, a particularly appropriate element it seems to me, as i can feel the wind slicing through the window frame.

beneath my window, on the ground, the dead-wood scatters, wind-tossed, there for the taking. as the temperature drops and the world goes to ground, it lies, offering itself to the eath, to the wind, to the fire of those with the will to pick it up and throw it in. every year, i think, the world shows us what must be done - that that which no longer serves has to be shaken off, buffeted away and ultimately, offered back to the elements from which it came.

but that which we offer to the fire... to the most transformative of elements.... i think should be offered with the most deliberate of intent.

and furthermore, the war must end.... blessed be.