Wolf Moon

 /   /  By Emma Birches
Stone Soup Magazine
November/December 2016

By Brooke Hemingway

The oak trees all around us
Hide the light of the moon,
Only emitting a faint
Spectral glow.
Rustlings and stirring,
Usual at nighttime like this
Are gone.
The air is silent tonight,
The tingle of magic in the air,
And it seems all of the forest
Is holding its breath,
Marveling at the beauty of
The moon.

The clearing in front of me
Is full of blinding light,
With the moon directly overhead,
The fullest it can be.
The rocks are painted white and silver,
With the ground frosty,
As though the early morning mist
Is painted upon them.
The whole universe sparkles,
Like stardust has fallen to the earth,
In the middle of our small world.

All around I hear the
Huffing and panting of wolf breath.
I step, into the clearing,
My front paw illuminated
From the otherworldly moonlight.
Raising my now silvery tail,
I lead my pack
Out into the clearing,
To howl at the moon.

Wolf Moon Brooke Hemingway

Brooke Hemingway, 13
Chicago, Illinois

About the Author

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