Coyote moon infusion of violet leaves to drink for breakfast in the morning.
The violet has been welcomed by the garden and nestles amongst hepatica and Sedum ternatum.
Things of the day brought me home late along flat farm roads at the time the orange moon was rising. Distorted by the windshield, it seemed not a full moon, but one day shy. Jared thought the left side not full, I the right. The moon's bronze glow narrowed my irises, blotting out the sprawling development and the empty plain destined for ballfields below.
At home, we bring trays of sturdy tomato seedlings and just germinating peppers inside. My calendar says tonight is a full moon indeed - the night to make a full moon violet infusion.
I stoop to collect kindling - the house is cold. A yipping, a whining, voices entwining. "Jared! Jared! Jared!" He's on the porch shortly, listening, too.
We've never heard coyotes here before, but had followed the tracks of one on Sunday, February 21. Never before had we seen coyote tracks. A remarkable day.
Coyotes, together in the forest.
We gather violet leaves in the cool evening air, thinking of the coyotes, thinking of the violets, thinking of events unfolding, all under the the full moon of April 28.