Wolf Moon, 5 a.m.

Wolf Moon’s final moments
illuminate the scar
on the maple where
last year,
the storm tore a limb
and crashed it to the ground,
so in its place this morning
a glowing pale shadow
like an owl or specter,
a No-Face in meditation
over the yard;
house eves cast a
great horned shadow
against the frosted grass
and somewhere near
somewhere unseen
something stalks
in quiet enough
to hear its hunter’s walk,
follow its course
in the deepest dark
of fallen leaves;
the fog is thick
with wood smoke
and salt brine
and catches in it
a car’s whine
screech scream
like a banshee now
as it rounds the bend
closest to the house;
an omen that soon
the long tall branches
will silhouette like
weathered hands into
the paling sky
and the day-monsters
will again
grab tight to the day.