It was the morning of the first full moon.
The sky was growling as we stepped our boots along the lane, padding in shallow muds, poking puddles with toes to play with dark refections. At the foot of the hill we paused, though no-one could remember why: the sound of the stream running fast, how the rains had swelled it, perhaps; after the heron flew up before us, the blue grey wings, the beak-spear, the dangle of legs, that is all we could think of.
Silver and blue, shoals of colour.
How clear the moving water was, and the puddles, rain-refreshed, shone back in amber slices.
It was the evening of the first full moon. Strange tides were calling us.
(Even Dog kicked her legs in active sleep.)
On the black river the moon would put a mark, a lit fingerprint.
Like an intake of breath the waters had expanded.
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