Towards the end of the eleventh hour, the moon of the popping trees finally broke through the clouds. In her absence, some had already lost faith, given up. The crows, after a long debate, had decided to drift off and head south along the river. The hares held a council to discuss which steps to take, in light of such a drastic turn of events. Muskrats, beavers and otters slinked along the lakeshore to search for the right path to take at such a time. Indeed, the confusion, the uncertainty, could be felt in the air by anyone, or anything, out to take stroll in the late afternoon sun. But the fears of all God’s creatures were allayed at a somewhat sudden drop in the temperature. The wind picked up and bit at the skin like the winds of old. Perhaps it had taken the shadow of the blood wolf moon to finally portend the return of the cold, dry breath of the Waziatá, the old north wind. Despite the harshness and fierceness that began whipping across the plains, bringing and end to their respite, the creatures, in spite of themselves, were relieved to be shivering again, to feel their cheeks chafe against the windblown snow. There would be death foretold, but as it was, so it shall be. The hard earth compacted like granite. The creatures struggled to wrap themselves and entwine with each other. The black and cloudless sky as blank as the abyss, left all exposed to the icy ether. The worms lay frozen. The frogs lay frozen. The hawks and eagles shifted uncomfortably in their icy nests. The Moon of the Popping Trees was now aloft, bright in the sky with nothing brave enough to conceal it. Aquarius, as she is also known, rose up high and brought forth the night and was proud of the stillness she caused. The absence of movement. The surrender to her standard of blue and back, her song of whistling wind, her time admired qualities of making the emptiness exquisite, the silence sing, and the darkness bedazzled.
THE MOSSY BOG 