It is as one imagines all witches might be – ever youthful though not immature, arch without being menacing, and always with a longing – a far away stare. And the wind…the constant companion.
Oh, for the crunch of real autumnal leaves, for the snap of frost on a window. And the smell of smoke drifting while the slender fingernail moon rocks in the dark sky. It’s out there, somewhere. And if it’s with you, blow it all a kiss.