The tide is coming in, turning the little valleys and hollows in the mud flats into streams and salt- pools that glow when the sun hits them. Tonight is the shortest night. Tomorrow is the longest day. The year has it’s own tides, it’s own rise and fall, warmth and frost, growth and failure, and we’re treating each one as a cause for celebration.
So, we stand on the bank of the estuary, in a spiral of pebbles grown over with seaweed, and toast the ancestors and the rivers and the slow, quiet ocean, and Sunna, sister of the moon, who warms the stones of the earth with bright hands and strange tides, and thank her for the bits of the year we like best, in the hope that there’s enough good food, good stories, and good mead to last the rest of it.