
Blood Moon
Look, said the moon
rising like smoke above the coire
to gild the inky breath of
snow
while one white hare
becomes lynx,
its crimson steam spinning
across the unmarked meadow
to curl its sky
into my dense night shadow.
It’s gone, I think
heart pounding for hares everywhere
ears trembling soft
long feet too close
to the sea.
An owl branch snaps
over night story stain.
Look again, says the moon
and I see it.
Beyond the bloody darkness
a circle remains.
It is enough, says the moon, crowned
by sunlight,
to turn the tide.
I watch
as the lynx stills, whiskery-twitches.
Gently, like a lover, lifts the
broken hare body. Slips, like a stone
into ripples, its tufted moon eclipsed
by a wave of trees.
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