By Eric Kiefer
It was autumn — the time of the Weeping Moon — and the harvest was finally done.
The boy’s fingernails were dark crescents after a day in the fields, and he was tired. He was in bed and on the verge of dream when Grandmother finally came to his bedroom and asked if he remembered to follow the tradition.
“Tonight,” Grandmother said, her voice always and forever a wistful rainbow, “is the full moon before the equinox. You had better put your seed out now, child.”