No time for curses.

The rain last night steadied and softened, steadied and softened but always with a tinge of red in the reflections. I walked the streets of the District of Columbia until 3 a.m. soaking in the feeling of satisfaction, not the precipitation. 

World Series champions reside again in DC for the first time in 95 years (with a notable exception to that timeline).

One columnist wondered whether the devil delivered this crown, fitting for this spooky season. So too was the other best piece I've read that opens with: "In the end, one last time, they were dead and found life."

But this is not a post about baseball. Or even sports (see a previous 30 edition for that).

It's more about how the Nationals (aka Senators) cast a spell on my attention this month, and that combined with a workload at my day job that has well surpassed crushing. Add an extracurricular schedule that currently bristles with projects I can't wait to tell you about in the coming months + the last races of triathlon season, and I'm sitting on a sparse cabinet of curiosities. Scary indeed. 

Until I can borrow a time turner from my favorite witch, here's two treats to carry along in your pumpkin pail:

Finally, poetry for those in a rush. 
 

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