Mugwort, Mimosa, and the Skunk Who Blessed the Circle

The moon sat wide-eyed above me,
casting silver breath over the trees.
Below, the fire glowed like a heartbeat,
its flames whispering to the coals in a language older than my bones.

Around my neck hung Heartroot —
a tiny glass vessel resting at my breastbone,
filled with mugwort for vision and mimosa for joy.
She breathed with me,
her green and gold spirit drinking the firelight and moonlight in.

At my bare feet, I crumbled mountain mint —
partly to turn the bugs away,
but mostly, I see now, to anoint the ground,
marking a living ring of scent and spirit
so that only what was welcome could cross into my circle.
The air sharpened; my senses woke.

Somewhere in the dark,
a skunk carried its own sharp truth through the air,
marking this night as its own.

The music of Wakinyan spilled from my altar stone,
threads of thunder spirit weaving through flame and shadow.
I breathed for the sky,
I breathed for the earth,
I breathed for the self.

And in that stillness between drumbeat and wind,
I knew:
I was sitting in the very center of the storm,
calm as its keeper,
alive as its roll.