On the full Hunter’s Moon we gather.

Around the fire we recite and read –Baudelaire, Rilke, Merwin…our own.

The bagpipe player plays flutes.

I sit on my hands.

Even though they want to strum, I wait until I’m home alone again to play that song and sing.

Sangria, enchiladas and cake with blueberries.  No wind and such bright moonlight.

Beside the embers we spin our words, make bio-char, then share it with the garden.