Last night, 22:00. Hot.

On the way to the lake, we rode through the dark woods, searching for the moon. We passed a man walking alone, singing reggae. At Cedar Lake, on the peninsula where my two buddies and I took the first cold swim of 2004, there now stands a bright, green light. The gravelly ground came to life in the form of hopping toads, and we fled to Cedar Point beach, which has no light, and where others were already swimming.

The lake flowed northwest like a river, waves gently entrancing our beach. We stepped into the cool illusion, immersing our bodies in the perfect water. Above us shone the drinking gourd, pointing toward Polaris in the moonless sky.

Just then, I saw orange fire glowing behind the black trees on the eastern shore. "That's the moon," I cried. We saw the huge orange ball swiftly rising, and soon it hung above the horizon, coloring the clouds and casting a flickering orange line of light on the water, leading directly into my skin.

We worshipped in the water, clear and black, until our teeth chattered. Then we dried off and sat on shore, the warm wind sending the mosquitoes away.