On a mid-August evening after sundown, the common weeds edging the yard become a haven for fairies. The darker the sky gets, the more the fairies flit in and out of tall milkweed, field bindweed, pig weed and scrub trees. The fairies dance among the stalks and leaves to the crickets’ song, alighting sometimes to rest, and then moving to a new partner to dance some more.
I watch this magic out my north window, and the vision causes my breath to catch in my throat, every time. When I am nearly half asleep, I am dancing too.
The forest is bare. On this epiphany* night, no snow has fallen. No snow at all. When the moon rises, its clean, blue-white light casts shadows — long, like fingers pointing the way home. I am … not afraid … apprehensive perhaps. And curious. Where is this eldritch home? In what dream, in what nightmare? Like those of the Ghost of Christmas Future, the bony digits insist: This way. Do I dare follow? Do I have a choice? Yes, always.
I make it.