And so it arrived. All our musical creatures filled the Medicine Room. Stuart Wilde, stalked and skulked, all twiggy legs and maniacal beard growth, a tailored crow, sporting millinery, a long coat and a swagger. The trademark Wilde sounds rang through the room, all delivered from under glowering brow and hissing and growling. A pleasant fearsomeness. The Medicine Room sweated and breathed heavy under the weight of his performance, a cramming of thoughts, ideas and admiration's all being stroked by Stuart's playing. The clock ticked, the fire sparked, throats swallowed nectar and poisons, brains melted and were reborn, some just fused into a loop of longing, kicked off by some powerfully passionate love songs, the Wilde crow revealing a tenderness of heart that could make him vulnerable to hunting. By the break, a potential had fallen upon the room and sat in the corners, waiting to be unleashed.
And so, winter is heralded in, with a gale and lone crow call and the scurrying and nesting of lovely little clever things.
The leaves can drop now. For I am full of comfort and have been utterly delighted by November Medicine.