Every fifth summer outside the town where the weavers live (the ones who dye their threads with dreams and stitch them in blue and purple and lovemaking gold), they celebrate the swelling of the fields and the rolling hills and the boundless sky with a festival night.
And tonight, children are allowed up late, to run with honey cakes, laughing and singing through the swelling fields of grain. And tonight, they stream silver plumes of smoke behind them and sing, while in the distance, their parents turn to each other, content beneath the full moons of summer and the nodding of the endless stars of the midnight sky.
In the furrows, the children plant sticks of incense, and the smell of frankincense and autumn sage curls up towards the witch's cloak of the sky.