At the margins of perception, in the twilight of paranoia, magic is spun into reality. Virtual photons sparkle on the event horizon, the boulder is rolled back and Schrödinger's cat has gone inexplicably missing, always, already, again.
But these are spring sentiments.
The magic of spring is charming enough--bursting blossoms, hidden eggs. But the true spring is but a pale reflection of winter dreaming.
Autumn is the true season of magic, dark rites, sacrifice, communication with the dead...A memory from the fall: it is Goose Summer -- warm and lines of silk loop along the avenues, catching upon limb and lamppost.
I hear the collapsing call of swifts overhead--I squint and, maybe, see them. The vanguard of aerial biota, twisting and diving, surely sucking unfortunately lofty spiderlings into their gaping maw.
Our words already fade like leaves and our obfuscations, like the wind, have spirited us away.