On A Full Moon

On a full moon, trees cast shadows, black on grey. On a full moon, the path before me glows faintly, beckons.

Friday night, a friend invited us to join her family on a full moon canoe ride in the canal near their home. She caretakes a 70 acre park in the center of our city. This park stretches its long fingers of green along the Willamette river and other contributing waterways from Springfield to Eugene. Such an invitation we could not refuse, no matter how long our day had been.

On a full moon, the sound of grass harnessing the wind is suddenly important. On a full moon, the beaver is known by the sound of his tail slapping the smooth surface of water.

We loaded the heavy metal canoe onto a once-bike-trailer and wheeled it along a mulched path to the place where we put in. The children skipped down the trail beside us in their lifejackets, heads bobbing at the height of summer grass. Mothers spoke quietly, sighing at the beauty and tranquil tiredness of nightfall.

On a full moon, the surface of the earth makes itself known through the feet. Rock crunches, packed dirt gives only a little, and concrete not at all.

We lifted each child into the canoe, an adult at front and helm. We left the makeshift dock effortlessly, oars lifting and swinging through water black as oil. Children giggled, whispered, and hushed. "I'm scared of bears and tigers," said Sam.

On a full moon, the log that breaks the surface of Turtle Pond could be danger if it is not seen in time. Our weight in the world, on water, could tip us into the drink if our crew does not balance as one.

"We are safe," I told him. "You have two capable and strong mothers with you," said my friend. "You should save Trin first," said Sam, "because of his cast."

On a full moon, the love in a heart is eclipsed only by fear, and light alone finds reflection.