Constance Wrzesniewski
Full Moon on a November Night
in the Woods of Hickory Run

There’s frost on the moon. The night is silvered.
Even the stars shiver, wrapped in shawls of fog.
How eerie the mist. A feathering of ice crystals
clings to shagbark leaves that crunch as I plod
deeper into the stand of once-friendly oaks.

The red fox chills my bones with his raspy bark.
A crack of branch splits the night. A buck leaps
across the path, heightens my fright. The snowy owl
hoots into the sleepless wind that rustles through pines
at the edge of the wood. Gleaming topaz eyes pierce

the tarry shadows. The grey wolf stands erect,
framed by soft sway of evergreens. He inclines his
head towards the moon. In scooping arcs, he howls
his rapacious reply into the chiaroscuro before him.

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