A poet-friend, Kevin, asked an elegant question, which prompted me to write a prose poem. Thanks, Kevin.
Moon Song
I think of the song it might sing to me, that moon. The other night while peeing the dogs before bed – Is that a thing I do rather than them? – the moon broke through a layer of clouds and suddenly the snow glittered like a wind-ruffled lake. And then from across the valley a pack of coyotes laid down a wall of yips and howls, a Hendrix wild and joyous chorus from the stillness. Both the dogs and I stopped. Listened. I’ve heard that light is a vibration of sorts, a wave that night broadcast from the sun that bounced off the moon, and, it seems, directly into the joy of coyotes. Maybe the poet, like those coyotes, is not a transmitter but a radio.