Mid-summer and the moon is full. The night, a dark, sweet liquid, pours out on my senses. By the moon's light, in the middle of the road, we see scores of migrating turtles tuned to an ancient memory of eggs and the heat of a full moon on a sandy beach. My children carry them off to the other side as if they were gifts laid at the feet of an unseen god. We stand by the lake which, in this moon light, looks like a bed of satin, black and shimmering, and always shining, forever shining in the eyes of my children.
night of shooting stars how the lake gives back its own light