Wolf Moon is almost full and shining brightly in the deep night. I see light but it's a cold brilliance without the comfort of warmth. the light doesn't belong to Wolf Moon, it is borrowed from the sun but is held close just the same. I imagine the Native Americans who used to frequent the ground I stand on, this very area to hunt and gather through the prairie and bog. I imagine the still, hushed landscape, I imagine listening to the howl of the wolves as they crept closer to the campfire. I imagine breathing the same crisp, fresh molecules of air and perhaps feeling a similar feeling of peace with the land, the sky, the moon as they must have felt. and giving thanks to the gods.
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