Woodsmoke from last night's fire followed me all the way down to the stream, and the bull's sparks start falling in earnest in a few nights — slow, fat fireballs with a thin young moon to play in. But first this ash has to come off, and I'm doing it properly. Tell me you'd brave the cold water with me, petal.
The veil is thinner tonight than it will be all year, so I'm feeding the fire and greeting whatever crosses in the old way — bare as the day the grove took me in. Tell me you'd be brave enough to step through.
She's doing it right now — sliding right over my seven sisters and putting them out one by one, just like I promised. I'm kneeling on the shore with my white flowers and the best seat in the grove. Tell me which one you'd save, darlin.
The lake finally went glass-still, so I'm down at the shore with my scrying bowl, asking the water what the dark half of the year has planned for me. The cold keeps making my shift negotiable. Ask her something, petal.
Seven sisters, one greedy moon — in a few nights she'll slide right over the Pleiades and swallow every one of them from sight. So I'm out picking seven white flowers, one for each, to hold while she does it. Come pick your favourite with me, darlin.
The Hunter's Moon is fattening fast, and every bright night she gives me is one less for watching stars — so the grove's feast comes first. I'm stripping the rowan trees of their red while the sun still helps me. Come pick the high clusters with me, darlin.
Peak night is finally here and the moon is still hogging half the sky, so I've built a slow fire and poured something warm to wait her out. Come warm your hands at my fire, petal.
The moon's planning to upstage the whole shower — she'll be three-quarters lit at the peak, bright enough to drown every faint streak until she sets. So I'm packing for the long cold wait till the last dark hours of the night. Be my blanket when she finally goes down, petal?
The peak is tomorrow night and I can't sit still waiting for it — so I'm out in the wet grass dancing the cold out of my bones while the sky's still grey. Come spin with me before the grove wakes up, petal.
The moon's fattening fast, and by the time the Orionids peak she'll be bright enough to drown every faint streak — so I'm marking my watching spot with silk while the sky's still hers to lose. Come help me pick the darkest hour, petal.