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.