"October" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
October's River...
October lingers by the water’s edge, where the current runs cold and the trees lean close, whispering in the wind. The leaves have begun their final descent—some drift gently, others tumble wildly, each carried by the unseen pull of air and river. They land on the blue surface and float away like thoughts loosed from the mind.
No lantern glows here. Instead, the river itself is the keeper of mystery. By day it gleams with a sharp light, bright as polished glass. By evening it deepens into a dark mirror, holding secrets in its restless flow. If September is memory, October is passage: what has fallen does not return, but moves onward, always onward.
Sit by the bank, and you will feel it—the hush between wind gusts, the cool damp air that seeps into your bones. The red leaves cling stubbornly to their branches, burning against the gray, but even they cannot resist forever. They, too, will join the current, carried away toward unseen places.
Some evenings, if you watch closely, the river reveals shadows beneath its surface. Not reflections, but impressions: a figure standing on the far bank, a face glimpsed between ripples, a song woven into the rush of water. Perhaps it is memory, perhaps only imagination—but the chill that follows is real. October does not frighten; she beckons, reminding us that mystery is always near, as close as the sound of water against stone.
By morning, the river looks ordinary again. Its surface sparkles in the sun, fish dart beneath, and the last bright leaves gather along its edges. Yet those who have sat beside it walk differently through the day. They know that every falling leaf carries a story, every ripple holds a secret, and every season asks us not only to remember—but also to let go.
* * * * * * * * * *
“In October’s current, even the leaves learn the art of surrender.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
October lingers by the water’s edge, where the current runs cold and the trees lean close, whispering in the wind. The leaves have begun their final descent—some drift gently, others tumble wildly, each carried by the unseen pull of air and river. They land on the blue surface and float away like thoughts loosed from the mind.
No lantern glows here. Instead, the river itself is the keeper of mystery. By day it gleams with a sharp light, bright as polished glass. By evening it deepens into a dark mirror, holding secrets in its restless flow. If September is memory, October is passage: what has fallen does not return, but moves onward, always onward.
Sit by the bank, and you will feel it—the hush between wind gusts, the cool damp air that seeps into your bones. The red leaves cling stubbornly to their branches, burning against the gray, but even they cannot resist forever. They, too, will join the current, carried away toward unseen places.
Some evenings, if you watch closely, the river reveals shadows beneath its surface. Not reflections, but impressions: a figure standing on the far bank, a face glimpsed between ripples, a song woven into the rush of water. Perhaps it is memory, perhaps only imagination—but the chill that follows is real. October does not frighten; she beckons, reminding us that mystery is always near, as close as the sound of water against stone.
By morning, the river looks ordinary again. Its surface sparkles in the sun, fish dart beneath, and the last bright leaves gather along its edges. Yet those who have sat beside it walk differently through the day. They know that every falling leaf carries a story, every ripple holds a secret, and every season asks us not only to remember—but also to let go.
* * * * * * * * * *
“In October’s current, even the leaves learn the art of surrender.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
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