Beginnings of Magic

An oversized spider creeps along the bench in the garden,
heading towards his web which wafts in the breeze.
Strung between the Japanese Maple
and the window shutter right of the front door, this morning
it is strung with dewy pearls. He sits watching over his treasure.

Out by Tyrion, our dwarf spruce that no one told was merely a dwarf,
Bartholemew Bonesy Balderdash leans casually, content in early sun's rays.
Yesterday, he was in the glen of birch trees. Tomorrow
he could be anywhere. You see, he moves around. Bartholemew isn't one
for putting down roots. He prefers to meander.

Last night we put our pumpkins on the porch. Early, perhaps, but they've
yet to be carved. They are still deciding on their mood for Halloween.
Coyotes hollered in the dark night. They sang of a successful hunt.
This morning, I thought perhaps it was the fog that layered the world,
leeching colors so all was shades of grey, but no.

Autumn orange yesterday, something must have scared them. For this morn
they are pale grey themselves -with fright perhaps?
Bartholemew nods as he leans on Tyrion. He knows, but
he isn't spilling his secrets. The spider drops on parachute thread,
landing stark against pumpkin top. Pumpkins fade to white.