Clouds and cool air moved in just as the full moon began its ascent. Shadows elongated as the sun lowered itself. The sky working its magical machinations as it did for all these centuries, confusing and confounding human logic and reason in wonderful wickedness.
The nature of a secret is to keep itself.
Seasonal ornaments lent the days a cozy and benign aspect, anything to blunt how cold and crisp the nights could suddenly get. Pumpkins of orange and sage combined with asters in purple and fuchsia to thrilling effect. Electric duets of saturated color sang their blaring songs, while the sweet call of a wood witch sounded like an echo, all faded and chipped by the wind.
When I look out my windowMany sights to seeAnd when I look in my windowSo many different people to be
They’re strange, so strangeIt’s very strange to me
You’ve got to pick up every stitch (gonna be)You’ve got to pick up every stitch (gonna be, gonna be)You’ve got to pick up every stitchOh no, must be the season of the witchMust be the season of the witchMust be the season of the witch
Channeling the moonlight that sifts through the suddenly-bare branches of the trees, the wood witch basks in the absent glow of the done day. The crunch of the crisp oak leaves, the snap of a brittle, barkless branch, the whistle of the wind through the tattered remnants that cling to the trees – this is the wooded realm that he knows best. It was here where he came into existence, here where he roamed as a boy, here where his innocence was hidden.
When I look over my shoulder (what happens then?)What do you think I see? (Mm)Some other cat looking over (shadoop, shadoop)Over his shoulder at me (ah, at me)
And he’s strange, so strange (so strange)He’s very strange to me
A woolen hood and cloak in a brighter shade of burnt umber, as far from a whiter shade of pale as one could get, floated about his shoulders, as if an article of clothing could conjure its own life and move of its own volition. Such a strange thing, the wood witch, lying buried so many days of the year, some years not stirring at all, and others reclaiming his rightful place amid the soon-to-slumber forest.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown of the wood.
You’ve got to pick up every stitch (gonna be)You’ve got to pick up every stitch (gonna be, gonna be)Beatniks are out to make it richOh no, must be the season of the witchMust be the season of the witchMust be the season of the witch
WitchWitch
