By

O.L. Shepp

A midnight cloud hides her silhouette.  Edged in iridescent light, she threatens to flood the starless sky.

Alone, you stroll into the night.  Where the late harvest moon ought be.  Her shadow’s settle, among the leafless elm, enough light lingers to hunt.  Little remains to hide.

A breath caught, a heart shivers as a lone wolf howls from afar.  The open plateau’s brittle grasses bend, snapping beneath your stride.

A gust pushes down the mountain, where warm air exchanged for night winds. Her masked face is not unveiled.

A near wolf drones in reply.

A twinkle burns through the quilted stratum, where her face should be.

Poetry of the moon

A step taken among shadows of the meadow, the bending branches twitch and shiver, waiting for her to comfort.  The wolves sing their duet still nearer.