A witching moon is out tonight.
Its contours are blurred by fog.
Its face is smudged with dark clouds
like charcoal finger prints on paper.
Suggestive is the moist breath
of the nearby river.
It collects furtively in alleys,
condenses on glass surfaces.
Reality has an oily quality.
A boggy scent fills the streets.
to the hopeful chirps
of lusty crickets
my body feels powerful,
an irregular presence.
The animal in me
purrs in response to
the moon’s provocative full face.
Yesssss, hiss all my slinky sinews
connecting aging, thoughtful bones,
not so old they have forgotten their youth,
but old enough to know it’s gone…
Yes, tonight we will dance.