To me, Autumn is the most untamed of seasons. It is the eerie belling of Elk stags in rut, the silent passage of hunting owls across the moon, the yellow-eyed swagger of brigand crows, and foxes dancing in meadows to drive field mice out of their grassy tunnels.Color lies in great drifts, like snow, and squirrels rummage anxiously for overlooked bits of food which they promptly bury and forget. The sun is brass, the sky is turquoise, and the wind's a piper to the leaves. For those of us given to such contemplations, it's the time of the the Wild Hunt, the Hosting, the domain of the Bean Sidhe. Perilous is Autumn, for field mice and mortal souls. Foxes and the Unseelie Court are abroad, and we laugh uneasily at fireside stories and the big-eyed shivers of our young. October is atavism at it's finest.
These days, I live in the sedate, pastel Autumns of Puget Sound. Times past, I've lived in the high country of Colorado where Fall is a cataclysmic event consisting of Aspens shimmering an eye-piercing yellow against the thin, dark sky... where sudden, roaring wind strips them bare in minutes. The wind reaches down the stovepipe and hauls the evening fire up by the scruff of the neck until it howls protest and sends volleys of blazing pine spears against the battered Isinglas-grated hatch. I remember riding up the side of a mountain in a gas-powered handcar, while my mom sang, "Cement Mixer, Puttee Puttee" in time to the chugging of the engine. I remember shuddering midnight trips to the outdoor biffy, cringing under the whipping Lodgepole pines, ducking my head lest I see the passing of the Wild Hunt overhead and be snatched from the earth by Gwyn ap Nudd. And I remember the absolute unmatched bliss of returning, unharmed, to the thickly quilted bed and the sprawling forms of siblings and cousins grumbling at my cold, gasping intrusion. Lying in the rosy wood stove glow, pulling the quilts up to my chin and listening to the savage howls of thwarted wind prowling around the house is as close to Heaven as I expect to get. Perhaps it's close enough after all.
"THE HOST is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream. The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart; And if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart. The host is rushing štwixt night and day, And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away."
William Butler Yeats
THE Fox went out one Autumn night, And he prayed to the moon to give him light. He'd many a mile to go that night, Afore he reached the Town-o, Town-o, Town-o..., He'd many a mile to go that night afore he reached the Town-o!
He ran 'til he came to a great big pen, Where the ducks and the geese were kept therein, "Couple of you gonna grease my chin, "Afore I leave this Town-o, Town-o, Town-o... Couple of you gonna grease my chin, Afore I leave this Town-o."
He grabbed the grey goose by the neck, And threw some ducklings over his back. He didn't mind their "Quack! Quack! Quack!" And the legs all dangling Down-o, Down-o, Down-o... He didn't mind their "Quack! Quack! Quack!" And the legs all dangling Down-o.
Old Mother Hobberflabber jumped out of bed, And out of the window she popped her head. She cried, "John! John! The grey goose is gone! The Fox is on the Town-o, Town-o, Town-o... John, John, the grey goose is gone, And the Fox is on the Town-o!"
Oh, John he ran up on the hill, And blew his horn both loud and shrill. "Ah!' said the Fox, "I've music still, And I'm safe through the Town-o, Town-o, Town-o... "Ah!" said the Fox, "I've music still, And I'm safe through the Town-o!"
He ran 'til he came to his cozy den, And there were the little ones, eight-nine-ten. They said, "Daddy, Daddy, better go back again, For it must be a mighty fine Town-o, Town-o, Town-o..." They said, "Daddy, Daddy, better go back again, For it must be a mighty fine Town-o."
The the Fox and his wife, without any strife, They cut up the goose with a fork and knife. He never had such a supper in his life, And the little ones chewed on the Bones-o, Bones-o, Bones-o... He never had such a supper in his life, And the little ones chewed on the Bones-o."
Midi sequenced by J.Johnson