Why would a wolf
howl at this moon?

Is it a hymn he offers,
a soul blue note
heard on high
to praise this
orb of yellow?

Or perhaps a lament
for lost wolves
he remembers?

No matter why,

he must know better,
surely, as a good hunter,

he must know better.

Has he not seen this
moon each month?
He knows it
comes and goes.

It’s the easiest night of all to hunt,

but no,

instead he fixes
his nose to heaven
and moans
his lonesome bellow.

He knows it blows his cover.
That any chance of a catch
tonight is over.

Below in dappled
pastures his prey suspect
it a ruse. Why wouldn’t he
pick a night like this, so ripe
and luxurious, to slink
out on the prowl?

It’s as if he’d rather
starve, as if no flesh
could stave his appetite,
as if his instincts
to survive are overridden
by moonlight,
and all he knows
to do is