You knew
yet, with the brashness of a child
you tuned your violin again.
Its song diffused
through wordless waves
to hang
from stoic trees
where, motionless,
brown-feathered owls observe
to gather evidence
and pass, still in the night,
wise judgment to
the howling wolves,
whose ears now reach
and focus in the dark,
wrapped in a cloud of pheromones,
of instinct from the spirit of
fresh endocrines,
no critter can resist its lure,
no nose refuse
the magic of its scent.
Of Needful Deeds
