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Alban Elfed on a wet hill

Alban Elfed with the grove: seven of us on the hill above the village, in what the forecast called 'light drizzle' and what my socks called a betrayal. We stood in the circle at the point of balance, day and night equal, and gave thanks for the second harvest. Bread from the village bakery, blackberries from the lane, and a flask of spiced apple juice passed hand to hand. Somebody's dog ate a fair portion of the offerings and we agreed that counted. The best part came after, walking down. The cloud broke for about forty seconds and the whole valley lit up silver. Nobody said anything. We didn't need to.