Today, it is pournami. There have been clouds, but they have dispersed, moved aside like curtains. The brilliance in the dark sky. The hard bright pinpoints of light. There is a temple on a street nearby, where there are no streetlights to compete with the moon. In the light of oil lamps and the moon fortune tellers line the street. In the reflected sunlight of the full moon, they claim to see the future. Dozens of them, with their cards and parrots and conch shells. It is a rare opportunity, because you can ask for the prognosis, and then get a second or third or half dozenth opinion. If they all agree, then it cannot be wrong. But there are always words to cloud the prophesies. Tricky, slippery things, words. They can say one thing and mean another. We know that. It is not fate that is inscrutable, it is words.