I am a slow moon on a foggy night, creating a glow, a halo of breath in the air, just now cold enough to see you breath. The field crunches beneath my feet as I wonder if there will be enough light for me to find my way home, enough time for me to say my peace, for me to experience the kind of peace I long for when I see you, wishing the fog would clear.

I am the moon after the harvest, the wheat cut down to size, my fullness may be hidden but I never lose sight of you even as you worry your way home.

I hear the rustling of the dry leaves that cling to branches whose inner flow has slowed and will continue to slow for months to come, conserving their energy, knowing they can’t depend on the sun to feed them as it does in the summer months.

I hear only this, only this rustling, and the steady in and out of my own breathing. I heat footsteps and look around, alert now to the darkness, my eyes adjusting, the moon behind the fog creating a glow, a halo.

I watch and listen, knowing animals are emerging in the night form their. burrows. Alert but not afraid, I stand still, unmoving, letting the weight of my body breathe me, letting this darkness envelop me, wanting to ask it all the questions I could never share in the glaring light of day. And I wait, not really expecting an answer, not expecting anything at all, a sensation that comes as a long exhale.

The question comes: Tell me about your wings, your face, the air.

I close my eyes, my mind doubting for a moment that this question was meant for me. But when I open them again, i see that there is no one else here. My hands move to my face, then I stretch my arms wide, wondering about my wings, feeling an unfurling that sends a rush of heat through me, and suddenly I am in flight looking down on a slender woman in the field who might once have even been myself.

The forest spreads out for miles and my wings are strong and powerful. i see rivers wending in the dark, catching the moon glint from behind the fog. The air here feels thinner and yet buoyant and I am free, I am wondering what took me so long but it doesn’t matter now because I am flying and my face is the moon and my body a thing in motion.

Back in the field, I see a woman. I am a woman. I am a shadow. I am a season.

Back in the field, I lean towards the hidden heart that keeps me alive. I kneel, then lie down in the frost, the air even colder now, and breathe through my mouth. The moon has never stopped bearing witness and somehow I know she loves me and this place. We share a language of silence that sings.

What wonders wait for me here, this I understand is not for me to know and so I release the question, content for now to simply rest.

After “Beginning” by James Wright and with gratitude to Krista O’Reilly Davi-Digui.

Slow Moon Shadow Season