All night his wheels roll
through the woods.
He shines his light.
He shoots
the deer we had been feeding.

When he was born his mother
toothed the sac and
he heard the stream by his window
speak to him in tongues.
His yellow eyes opened and
through a crack in the roof
he learned the trick of changing
with the waxing moon.

As soon as he could walk
She chased him out of the house.
He learned to run down rabbits.

Now no woman can keep him
at home. He paces then escapes
to rural cross roads, the bracken, the swamp.

Barbara Spring lives in Michigan.

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