Dog howling, head pointed
towards the stark moon,
what is there in the moon
that makes it bark,
raucous anger and then petering into a whine, abysmally low,
everything is quiet,
as the silence is punctuated by the howls
the moon climbs up fearing this creature
the dog curls to sleep,
dreams. I shut the door
of my childhood, and the howl continues late into
the night. The winds of March and April lash the window panes.
Everything merges suddenly into litany of silence.
