It's Still Life

At the Wolf’s Throat

The air is drenched by twilight, its last reach
finding forest, finding bush and grass,
and its migrating light’s growing shadows.
Wind purrs with midges, the full-faced moon
mines at silence, while far away, men are

at the wolf’s throat, at war’s gateway where
death’s remit migrates, broken and browned.

9 words from The Oracle. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.