The full, golden moon was balanced on the sharp rim of the eastern High Sierras; a Hallowe’en moon, a witch’s moon, ……. a hunter’s moon. (I wanted to use my little bit of Italian, out of deference to a young friend who spent time in Italy, but the Italian version sounded too much like a chicken casserole: la luna della cacciatore…..”Moon of the chicken casserole;” Hmmmm. Nope. Just didn’t have the same “cache” as the Spanish version!) Watching it roll up into the inky dark of the still starless sky, one could envision the silhouettes of a platoon of broom riding witches drifting over the huge, golden disc.
I stood motionless on my backyard deck, hot chocolate in hand, and watched as the three “hunters” stealthily emerged from the open door of the master bedroom, their eyes like flat, silver coins, reflections of the ambient moonlight. Each was a liquid shadow, moving cautiously toward the hole they had excavated in the dilapidated wall of my house. They watched me, fearlessly, boldly, daring me to make a move to try and take their “kills” from their needle sharp fangs. They disappeared as swiftly and as silently as only three, overweight raccoons possibly could, squeezing their size 16 butts into a size five hole. I’ve heard quieter jake brakes on 18 wheelers.
What this particular nightly raid into the bedroom had netted them, I could only guess. But I think I know where all of my husband’s socks and Fruits of the Loom have disappeared to, along with a mitten and scarf or two of mine. I’m wondering what the three “bandidos” will choose to “hunt” next. For now, at least, all of the furniture remains untouched.