One sky, three signs.

You read as gentle until something you love is threatened. Then people meet the other tide.

A Sagittarius moon refuels on horizon: the booked ticket, the open question, the sense that the map is bigger than the town. Ceilings make you sad before you know why.

You launch on the outside and drift on the inside: decisions come easily, moods come tidal. Let the plans hold what the weather cannot.

The internet writes Cancer off as a mood with legs. Your Sagittarius moon rewrites the chemistry: underneath runs a furnace, and it votes. Whatever the surface promises, the inner life is heat: quick to love, quick to defend, lit from the first hour of the day. You are not a typical Cancer; nobody with this moon is.

People lower their voices around you, as if you already know. The mask matches the face; what they meet at the door is what lives in the house.

In a room, you say little, see everything, and the room slowly notices being seen. Off duty, it's flight prices checked like weather, and the philosophy that arrives at midnight. The first is the Scorpio at your door; the second is the Sagittarius that lives in the house.

The blaze arrives looking like weather. You read as moody; you are, in fact, burning.

Two parts Water, one part Fire, and the Fire sits in your moon. The minority voice is why parliaments work: when the water consensus feels too easy, that is the vote to consult.

A field guide, for whoever keeps trying: Come in soft; this door feels you before it hears you. Once inside, cheer the beginnings: love here sounds like 'go, I'll hold the ladder.' Send it to the ones who knock.

Feed the moon first: motion, heat, a start. Ten minutes of beginning something cures what a whole evening of rest cannot.