Lunar Talisman

One summer night, when the air was crisp and the dust had settled cool. I was given a talisman by an envoy of the moon. 

I recall that night feeling sleepless in my cot. In the darkness I reached around for my canvas dancing socks. Finding them, I unzipped the opening to the tent. A shiver went through me as I let the cold invade the shelter where the warmth on my blanket remained; there in blanket folds dreams were hiding, unseen, and to discover them had been my hearts intent and only scheme. In haste I gathered the few things I imagined I could need.

I silently slithered into the desert night. There was a breeze which received my poncho, emboldening it with undulating life, making the blue wool bluer by swelling the fabric in the cool light. 

Around me spread the night, revealed by the lantern of full moon. The sky enthroned in silvery white, shone against the liveries of a thousand points of stars, so was the brilliancy of the gloryful July sky. 

Finding my path illumined and open, I wandered into the fragrance of sages. Tridented leaf edges bathed in the abundance of moon rays. Their favor a clamor of adoration, all gallantries to be the receivers of their mistresses caresses. 

I went searching for a great anthill. For I had noticed that wheresoever in the Wyoming country where an anthill could be found, the ring of earth that surrounded the colony was denuded of its vegetation. It may be that the ants in their industry maintain this manicured condition. In any case these formic lawns create the most suitable dancing grounds. There a dancer may have clearance of several unobstructed feet extending away from the ant mound in all directions. The light made it easy to find such a plot of land. An affluent ant colony with a proud conical mound, and its signature broad lawn denuded save for some cacti whose positions I noted, lest in my dance I become familiar with their crowns of spines.

There is no point in describing the beauty of a sacred lunar dance. These mysteries of lunar adoration would be better survived only by the whispers of Wyoming winds. I myself remember little of the dance, only that it felt like a dream or trance. For that the steps and my choreography are lost to desert sands. 

Although I thought that there were no observers to my ceremonial rite I had been mistaken. The opuntias were staring at me. Their half open blooms were poetry in the moonlight. Yellow petals meaning to worship the sun. And my shadow an elongated replica of my movement, axially tied to my feet casting shadows over the timid flowers, giving them a pallor. A million hay faced moons have cast their light over these flowers, and a million more will follow.

My talisman is a vision of these moonlit hours. Of opuntias crowned with spines and flowers dancing with my shadows.