Crescent Moon

Crescent Moon

Wolves sang an evening song

when the moon was a slender saffron slip

not cinema-full over popping buttons and silvered claws

but a scissored cut-out in jack-o-lantern glow

its hue a match for ripe gooseberry 

soft skin of peeled birch 

and pearly salmon roe, rich in the belly 

of bear.

The old song left no one out.

Even the barely lit bog of steeped orange tea

seemed to stand up

hearing their names 

in purple pitcher plant and red cranberry

black spruce and cedar root

wind, owl, slinking mink

furred and feathered and rocked in pine.

Wolf and companions

trotted on, leaving the water rippling 

with echo. The stones, wet and still

dried to ochre in the moon’s light.

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