Kage Baker liked to sing that refrain, as we whirled over the line between September and October. It was a play on an old Faire favourite:

Now is come September, the Hunter’s Moon begun;

And through the wheaten stubble is heard the frequent gun.

The leaves are pale and mellow, and kindling into red;

And the ripe and bearded barley is hanging down his head.

All among the barley, who would not be blithe,

When the ripe and bearded barley is hanging on the scythe?

Because, you know, tonight is the last night of September. After this, we are really dancing in the dark by the light of the harvest moon; plus whatever stars we choose to drape amid the branches and boughs.

Who could not be blithe? Not me, that’s for sure. The weather is cooling down, I needed a blanket last night, and all the lights in our front garden have been changed to orange and yellow. We even have a couple of strands of candy corn lights, just to add seasonal charm. There is an autumnal model tree all rich with tiny white lights on Kimberly’s desk, and wax tapers are lit all over the living room.

I am about as blithe as I can get in all this, and enjoying the season as it curves over us in a great, smoke-scented wave. However … for unknown reasons, I woke up sick to my stomach. I’ve thereafter drooped about all day, harbouring warm cats and huddling beneath my comforting blankets as I try not to throw up.

So far, so good. But it’s not conducive to writing, especially if I don’t want to throw up on my computer keyboard. And I don’t. Those cans of air don’t do anything to clear puke off the keys, and the frighten the cats.

So, I shall see you all tomorrow, Dear Readers, when I am closer to good health and not a walking land mine of yuck. I have some interesting weirdness to entertain you all, some strange coincidences and unnatural connections, some missing and/or resurrected species scattered hither and yon. Fun stuff.

Now I’m gonna go take an anti-emetic and curl up under a cat. Sweet dreams, all.