Astride the very air as spring's hopeful promise gives way to the intolerable long defeat of scalding summer months, the ordinarily lively witch abides in a moment of quiet introspection, her fathomless eyes gazing as though through the ephemerality of time itself from beneath the sheltering brim of her sagacious cornuthaum, scholarly hands delicate except at the well-seasoned fingertips grasping as though it were a concession to the material her wondrous yet disarmingly mundane conveyance, a ligneous limb in a sense untimely yet in a truer sense inevitably ripped from the autumn forest's pallid bounty (for what is an autumn, to a wood, if not a solemn preparation for a death?), wondrous enchantments whispering seductively to those inflexible laws which are at once the stern guardians and tireless demiurges of that peculiar ineffable public order on which the world itself relies, cajoling with self-serving theorems and cosseting with energy of clouded provenance.
"Forsooth," utters the honey-pated magus to the silent azure sky, "I, uh, remembereth not whence I hath bequenched the inferno of flames that feedeth mine cauldron afore the hour of mine departure from warm hearth into wild yonder. Forsooth."