About half an hour before moonrise, we meet up at the coven bench in the park, big enough to hold a whole coven. Well, almost.
We catch up, laugh, dish a little. It's August, almost September, so zucchini bread, curds and apples circulate along with the wine.
When bats begin to wheel, it's time to make our magic: down the hill and around the lake, still high with summer rain, we go. We stride purposively, silent with intent. Cowans clear the way without realizing it. Frog after frog hops along our path as we walk: tens of them, scores of them. Clearly the frogs have magic of their own to make tonight.
We circle, right shoulders to night water. We meet up again where we started, where the three paths join. By Bat, by Moon, by Frog: So mote it be.