Wolf Moon by Lois Parker Edstrom
The January moon is ripe. It spills its light
into the dark night, an extrovert needing to be
the center of attention. There is a reason
wolves howl when the moon reveals the fullness
of itself, and although I haven't done so,
I've felt the urge—a longing so ancient and wild
as if in a time past we came from an enchanted place,
a place so beautiful we want only to return.
Now the moon casts its cold white light
onto everything—the fields glitter and the lake
gives itself up to receive the radiance
of that dominating presence.
We may lose ourselves in brilliance,
an attraction that smolders, just waiting to be lit.
No secrets, no dark and quiet corners.
The moon demands clarity.
Come into the light.
The dog noses January night,
swivels ears to listen.
He hears what we cannot.
Answers oo-oow, low at first,
tentative, the opening bars
of an ode to joy.
He builds, stacking oo-oo-ow
on oo-oo-oh, all call now,
half-wild, he pulls the wolf
out of his chest, sets it loose
to bound along the tree line,
where it howls back, the sound
muffle and shattered glass,
becomes a fabulous round
of echoed voices.
The dog closes his eyes,
muzzle pointing to the stars.
Front paws lift off the ground
in ecstasy, he is conductor
and orchestra both
calling his pack home
as he plays a winter song
under the Wolf Moon.
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