It’s the golden time of year, when hearths are fired to chase away the chill; and hobgoblins are carved and set out waiting for the moppet parade. All that has blossomed begins to shed. All that beamed under the summer sun, seeks cover in the woodshed and warmth under plaid blankets. It’s a cozy time, when things mature, trying to cast off thoughts of winter’s coming. Words are brash and bronze, shunning silver’s hastening.