Listen, the snow is falling and it is not Christmas yet.

Snowy days and sun soup. The weekend of climate action is here.

Chill is cold comfort for climate experts, for us cold is Pluto.

Don't be fooled by the calendar. Every day is festival.

Haunted moonlit night, witches will go riding and black cats will be seen, the moon will laugh and whisper. The owls will go, "Who? Who? Who?" This will be a night when the wolves are silent and only the moon will howl. The black cat yowl and the green ghost howl. The night of the grave's delight. There is a sacred horror about everything grand. It's Halloween highjinx, pumpkins grinning toothy smiles. Have a bootiful, beary scary fang-tastic night.

Christmas is putting footsteps in the meadow, I hear the bells, familiar carols play, snowflakes swirl down gently in the deep blue haze beyond the window, and colored lights blink on and off, racing across the green boughs. The outside world is a dream.