When the sun sinks slowly out of sight on the horizon, taking with him all the buzz of daytime in a happy sigh, the moon begins her climb up into the sky and it’s in this moment that magic is nigh. With the sunlight now vanished from the heavens, the sleepy town is draped in a veil of grey. The stars twinkle in fixed constellations that have watched over the Earth since the beginning of time.

Darkness blankets the forests and hills where nocturnal activity begins to stir; a steady heart beating in the dead of the night, as creatures from the shadows begin to emerge. 

 The bats and owls, the scorpions and snakes, blink open sleepy eyes from a long day of rest. Pupils dilate, taking in the moonlight that helps their night vision as the hunt begins.  In the heart of the forest a drumming is heard and a soft hum of singing and laughter and fun. A closer look reveals faeries dancing in circles, bouncing atop mushrooms, flowers and stones. Ethereal bodies spellbound by the music move and flow freely to the pounding of drums. These glowing creatures sing songs of ancient lore; of Avalon mists and dragons of Old. Songs of witchcraft and magic forbidden to man, so unearthly and sweet beyond human conception. Their silvery voices in cadence and rhyme rise in child-like revelry to the firmament above.

Perched on an old oak, branches crooked with age, sits a lone raven in stoic contemplation. Its beady eyes shine with unnerving cunning and its back is hunched from the burden of knowing events that have not yet transpired. A sudden gust of wind ruffles its feathers, sending one flying up into the air. It twirls and dances in the gentle breeze, glistening a midnight blue under the pale moonlight. It glides silently, suspended above the ground as the raven caws the witching hour. The feather lands gingerly in a bubbling stream where a river nymph surfaces and fishes it out of the sparkling waters. She sits on a stone on the edge of the brook and weaves the black feather into her shimmering hair. Then after admiring her beauty in a pool of still water, she makes her sweet way back to the river. Wading into the currents she knows oh so well, she dreamily sings to herself as she immerses herself completely into the dark depths below.

In the distance a fire appears to be burning, below a large cauldron that is smoking and bubbling. Above it, a maiden in a black velvet cloak busies herself stirring and flipping through a large, dusty book. She stirs and she stirs and adds herbs here and there, making a brew of protection made more powerful by the waning moon. In rhyme she chants her incantation; weaving her magic of darkness and light. She invokes the elements and her Goddess and God, under whose proud gaze her spell has been cast. Removing her cloak, she prances around the fire, sky-clad and mirthful in the eyes of the Mother.

Nighttime is laden with magic and mystery for those who’ve retained their childlike wonder. The death of day gives rise to enchantment and the world becomes filled with wonder in the eyes of those who choose to see the incredible in the ordinary.