he Owl, silvered with age and wisdom,

watches foliage spread like wildfire across the trees.

He remains perched meticulously upon Jack—

Stingy Jack, who keeps the devil in his pocket.

Jack of the lantern,

who roams the dark Earth,

sits rotting in his orange flesh,

dried leaves rustling past.

His meaning never changes for those around him,

sitting in the crisp, ominous night.

The Owl sees disguised children passing by—

stomping on crunching leaves,

paying no mind to him or Jack.

Colours burn of autumn within fires,

lighting the way as they go.

The world’s balance shifts to the autumnal equinox—

falling from what life it once lived.

Persephone, who flirts with the night,

brings with her the darkness of fall—

& Jack, who awaits her cool crisp coming—

takes her hand on Hallow’s Eve

& trips the light fantastic—

a waltz until the dawn—

the Owl, their audience of one.

Autu,

the passing of the year—

the hours of light grow shorter,

& nights, which now equal the days,

come chilled & quick, air dry & rusty.

The Owl foresees the encroaching grey.