ON THE HUNT — BY JOHN GREY

The moon’s so full of itself,

it lingers, round and yellow

even at daybreak.

If I could blast it out of the sky, I would.

Instead, I glean the forest trails,

find werewolf prints but no werewolf.

It's morning and the songs begin,

warblers and robins, rollers and larks,

all out to make a living,

or to give too-late warnings

to the carcass found in the river.

I listen for a more immediate alarm,

my pistol following my eyes 

in all directions.

I tremble up and down my bones.

I’ve seen what the beast can do.

For an hour or two in near-light,

I’m a slowly-moving bait,

but that elusive wolf-man doesn't show.

My body's damp with its saliva.

My heart growls with its hunger.

But I find werewolf prints and no werewolf.

Trees close in, block the sun.

Mist rises up, crouched, silent, stalking.

Author's Bio

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Dalhousie Review and Blood And Thunder. Work upcoming in Hollins Critic, Redactions and California Quarterly.