We recite in unison, beautiful and ethereal to the harvest spread before us:
Sky Mother, nestled in the stars,
Your name is sacred.
You witness from the darkest night
Our acts in your name
Both above and below.
The bounty you guide,
Begets the harvest we eat.
Forgiveness flourishes in our blood
Within and without.
Daily temptations lead us,
For your will is the power and glory.
Today is special, our Harvest Day. A few missing native born never go amiss. The subjects are funny about what we all them, not that it changes the label. They insist they are Americans, or Well-bred. The quality of their entire being is the key. They insist that ‘native born’ means a type of subject, when all we mean is Earth-born.
Some of us think we should call them Earth-born just to shut them up while we work. We are torn. But other priorities keep us busy enough not to notice too much.
I told them this ‘Halloween’, a beloved day of costumes for the native born, was ideal for our Gathering. Americans, as they call themselves, use some of the same imagery as we do – harvest, moon crescent, fruits of our labor, boogie men (women? They are so hung up on gender, even as they are dinner.) Some of them even have stars and moons as a theme all year round.
My costume draws their attention, not quite right, good distraction. They wonder how I can tell, but I just can. Hope I’m not going native. Gruesome business, but necessary to our work I suppose.
Time to go, a window of four ripe hours begins right before dusk. Bounty awaits.