September is a wonderful month.

It’s when the air gets all cool and the leaves become crisp. When you go out for your morning walk, there are wisps of fog wrapping their fingers like tendrils around the lamp posts, creeping up on buildings like a consortium of ghosts, creating that craven sense of caution and creep. The sun goes all cold too around where I live, casting icy silhouettes in lieu of warm shadows.

It’s perfect, this air that speaks of dread and mystique, woe and worry, this snide thing that takes hold of the atmosphere, almost like some evil that had been hibernating all winter has been let loose.

I can see the hunters in the forests, chasing the September rabbits with their shotguns and their spotlights.

I save the rabbits.

I take them up my sleeve and go about my merry way, whistling, trotting, tipping my wizard hat to those confounded hunters. Let them wonder where the rabbits went. These are Rhosgobel Rabbits, and I shan’t let no firearm nor wielder of said firearms have their way with these critters of the forest.

This air of cool makes all that is fowl drool,

so therefore be wary if ye be not a fool,

the spiders with their fiery fangs and silken spools,

those murky waters what gather in dark pools,

wary, wary, those wicked ones who weave and pull wool,

like ripe plums, pluck tiny toddlers from their schools,

devise all manners of schemes vile and cruel,

abide by no rules these denizens of Yarghul,

beware the September sprites and ghouls!