For twenty-eight days
I have watched the cycle
of crescent, half, full.
I have heard at dawn, at dusk,
the yips, the growls,
the full-throated yowl of storybook,
head thrown back on
some mountain somewhere,
cameras, lights, action.
Sometimes someone reports
a sighting, sole, in groups, but you
continue to elude me.
At night I dream of you,
sniff your acrid scent,
catch the amber glare.
On the 29th day I rise before light,
climb seven hills, see the pink trace
its line against cloud.
You are there before me,
intent on your quest, muzzle grounded,
a night’s long hunting behind you.
I watch; it is polite to stare
after what I’ve climbed,
the time I’ve waited,
knowing you’ll sense me,
raise your eyes,
lock gaze.
But con-man that you are,
you keep your eyes down,
force me to make the running.
I howl. You disappear.
The sun comes up,
shedding her golden light
on tricksters everywhere.