Wolf Moon

The dog noses January night,
swivels ears to listen.
He hears what we cannot.
Answers oo-oow, low at first,
tentative, the opening bars
of an ode to joy.

He builds, stacking oo-oo-ow
on oo-oo-oh, all call now,
half-wild, he pulls the wolf
out of his chest, sets it loose
to bound along the tree line,
where it howls back, the sound
muffle and shattered glass,
becomes a fabulous round
of echoed voices.

The dog closes his eyes,
muzzle pointing to the stars.
Front paws lift off the ground
in ecstasy, he is conductor
and orchestra both
calling his pack home
as he plays a winter song
under the Wolf Moon.

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