The witching hour approaches.
yellow moon, split clean,
closer, bigger, clearer.
Eclipsed by black cauldron smoke.
Grey mist providing shadows,
and obliterating them.
The blink of an eye and it's gone.
The opal becomes formless and mythical.
Vision obscured by memory,
as though it didn't exist.
But the spell remains.
And somewhere behind the clouds,
the jaguar's watching.
