If you didn't know it was a ritual, you wouldn't know it was a ritual.

An hour before moonrise, we gather at the coven bench in the park.

We swap news, laugh, eat fruit and cookies. Our newest member is just now back from five months in the Middle East; it's Sun and Moon to my eyes to see her again. She's giddy with the freedom of it all: public paganism. Being second generation, she'd never experienced the broom closet before: the pagan generation gap.

We toast her return with (ahem) iced tea from the thermos.

Somewhere behind the tree line, the full Moon is rising unseen. We sing to her, then go downhill to the lake.

Each has her own intent. Silent, we circle the already-dark water, its surface stippled with south wind; soon the Full Moon will shine from its midst. The power builds as we go.

Our circuit complete, we climb back up to the bench. Midsummer is near; we sing a song of Summer in anticipation.

And suddenly there She is, climbing out of the horizon haze: rose-red, strawberry-red. We sing to her: three songs, always three for the Moon. The power of the joined voices delights our coven kid, who's been learning these songs at home. He claps along, enthused, belting out the words.

We talk some more, pack up, laugh. People drift off.

No circle cast, no quarters called. Not your mother's Full Moon, maybe, but it suits us just fine.

Urban landscape, with witches.