She felt the moon. She felt the magic—both calling to her then.
A change on the wind, cool blow from the north. There would be a killing frost; ice crystals’ suspend in air and sky forming halo around full moon, bright aurora around form, hinter-edged in prism light, kaleidoscopic in the sky.
Coyotes’ howl, still after-silence as the killing frost set in; cold arrival of the north.
Fire in hearth, pop and crackle of splitting wood, grained splinters curled in consuming of the flame; its light on the stone, its cast into room; warmed and safe from the killing frost as wild and magic played in the full moon sky.
She saw it all in vision—felt it in her bones; knowing of a way, archaic and old, never fully lost by those with magic in their blood and sacred-wild as their roots.
Moon and magic called.