The Crone Chants a Full Moon Om.
The full moon commands the deep night sky. I take my ritual outside, stand with arms outstretched to the bright promise of the moon. I wear the shirt on which I painted the magic mandala. I chant. Aum. Aum. Aum -- the sacred sound of OM. I watch the thin strands of clouds move into the form of the syllable. There is no wind. There is no sound other than the hum of the universe.

Sons are borne. Sons are born. Sons are borne. This full moon is for my son, too far away to see the sky as I see it. Across the continent, tonight I send magic through the ether. Tomorrow, I send magic through the mail. The Crone chants Om. Om. Om. See the mandala moon. Chant Om. Intend. Become.