In the old days, they called it the rustler’s moon. Just past a toenail and a little under a half. Enough light to see what you’re doing, but not enough for them to draw a good bead on you. A few of these nights each month my big boots slip on, and I slip out. Backyard fences, dusty streets, foraging possums and the occasional insomniac flutter-lit by all-night Bonanza marathons are all that stand between me and my friends and a friendly tequila. These are the nights I’m most alive.

Sauza
Live a legend.