Magic, to me, is being able to recognize a fox I once knew, in an ageing mother raccoon, and my long-dead coyote in the crow I raised. It is sowing grass seed, for a new lawn, and seeing it show shoots in twenty minutes. Or folding a straight, flat highway up, into a roller-coaster, for two hitchhikers demanding to see a miracle.
It is the utter impossibility of a Pentecostal woman, calling me by a name nobody has called me since childhood, in the exact accent of my mother.
Magic is stuff that doesn't quite scare me, but fills me with an awe that demands respect and reverence.
Magic is, above all, mystery.