Baying at Two Moons

Baying at Two Moons

The moon is full above Mount Inglismaldie
and mirrored on obsidian Two Jack Lake;
the nights are growing long, but no Vivaldi
concertos leap the seasons' firebreak—

there's silence. Now a lone coyote flows
along the bank then, head raised like a seal
balancing a moon-ball on her nose,
poises to unthroat a call. I feel

her loneliness—she’s come so close to me
it seems as though she may have lost a mate
and sensing me has sparked an urge to yowl
to any living thing for company,

but, even so, I don’t anticipate
the utter woebegoneness of her howl.

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