This new moon is the Buck standing silvery and tall at the edge of the wood. Watching. Waiting. Strong lungs having exhausted their breath, pausing before drawing the next.
To know the field before bounding out into the misty grasses.
Consider the things you do between breaths, as the emptied air falls away in the breeze. This is the time for small moves requiring delicate accuracy. Aiming. Pointing. Focusing.
This new moon in July, with it’s quiet moment, has me staring at the scattered stars above. Undaunted by any other light. Their setting in perfect, universal black. I see the softly frozen, silken waves of the Milky Way as humans might always have, before they lit the night.
I breathe in and see.
I breathe out and listen.