Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
The Sun Doesn't Wait
Party at Frater B's
“Just about sunset,” I say. “Time to go out.”
The pagans have been sampling Frater Barrabbas' awesome home-brew all afternoon.
“Wait,” says N. “I have to pee first.”
“The Sun doesn't wait,” I say.
We go out. Across the lake, the Sun is poised at the horizon.
M, a notorious chatterer, belatedly joins the group. Hearing her draw in a preliminary breath, I turn and fix her with my eye.
“We're trying to do something sacred here,” I say, meaning: Don't get started. For a wonder, she actually listens.
The Sun reaches the horizon. We blow, a conch shell and three horns.
The Sun sets. People pray. The good Frater pours out a libation, some of that fine, fine home-brew.
As the last of the Sun disappears below the horizon, we blow again.
We sing, to the new day.
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