A sliver-crescent moon between moving clouds
In the early morning, the kind of moon
Wolves howl at or elves gather under.
Today, then, I run with the wolves and elves
Through the trees and across the plain.
We’ll speed into towns full of sleeping people
Who don’t believe in us. We’ll sneak into their rooms
And howl and sing, and they’ll hear nothing of it.
But when they awake there will be something
Thrumming inside them, and they’ll open the front door
Or peer out the big window in the living room
Where they’ll see our sliver-crescent moon
Between moving clouds.
Oh! They’ll say.