The moon bird squawks
Its long haunting cry
and the sound travels
valleys and fields,
pools filigreed with metal.
It’s a long, lonesome howl
Not unlike the coyote’s
Who crawls in an elephant graveyard
of sodden stones and broken bones.
Ears pricking, fur bristling
As like calls to like.
He sends out a sharp bark of his own.
The sound of a dog laughing as it dies.
Bitterly amused by the irony of life,
The humor in the hypocrisy of death.
The dog at the hearth chuckles.
It is the last breath he has to give.
The human he gives it to sleeps on,
Face turned towards a pillow
Made from the wool of sheep
Who would kill to murder him.
He snores like a chainsaw,
Oblivious to the sounds he can’t hear.