By Elizabeth C. Creely
On Saint Patrick’s Day, the sun came out, but just barely. After three months of below average rainfall for San Francisco and California, the rain came, finally and all at once, in short staccato bursts. A secluded meadow in Golden Gate Park, affectionately called Magic Meadow by local pagans, was wet. A series of puddles dotted the meadow, pools of water that reflected the sky like silvery mirrors. Water—the elemental quality of the West, beloved by pagans and witches for its radical powers of transformation—inundated the turf and the surrounding areas of the park. A red-tailed hawk sailed through the air and settled on a tree branch, cocking his head and surveying the clearing with his mad eyes. No one noticed it. They were waiting for Tarin Towers to arrive. “She’s on Pagan Standard Time,” someone said.