Last night was incredible. Fiona and I went out for a walk around the neighborhood just as the sun was setting. The moon was already up, a perfect half-circle in the sky, and in the west, a peachy stain colored the odd wisp of cloud.
It felt so amazing to stand in the cemetery and watch the sun give way its hold on the world. It hung an extra wistful moment at the brink of the hills, then, in the moment I turned my head to watch Fi scrabble up an uneven step, plunged behind the trees. The moon was suddenly much brighter. All around, the world held its magical breath. And the seasons turned.
Tonight we stepped out for our stroll, the same sunset moment as the day before. But this evening's magic was a different shade of magic. The Crone stood unabashed in the sky, moon-face broader than the night before. Her cold wisdom was evident in the crushed leaves beneath my sandals, and the cruelty of our cat's snatch at a fat, grey mouse. The little animal shrieked with pain and fear as Omega danced around it; then, as we drew near, he snapped the creature up, not trusting us too near his treasure.
My heart shook inside me, aching to save the poor little mouse. But logic stilled my hand. Once bitten by a cat, there isn't much hope for an animal--there's just too much damage. But I felt winter-worn as we picked our way home. I can respect the Crone and her ways, but I do not love her.
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