Tonight the wolves are prowling; I can feel them in my blood- and in my ears they’re howling in wild rage against the flood. The moon is in my eye, and in its glow I’m overflowing- drowning in the starry sky, and clawing madly for a thing which moonlight isn’t showing. In naked wind I feel the sting of sleeping decades in rotation: I mark my plot, make darkness sing, but summer, fall, winter, and spring eclipse my shallow indentation.