Been wandering in my own head, writing new stories for old series’, making devotions to the rain-soaked Washington forests, leaving offerings in rings on the corpse-roads and at the roots of trees looked after by me and the watchers. The Wild Woman grows skinny and silent as the rains and cold come. Green Man’s face shrivels and is transformed into the quiet mask of the evergreens. The Hunter will ride in over the old-roads, the Hag will fly in with her hazel …