Wild Thing

The urge grows it makes me squat over traces in the mud, poke leaf shadows with a fingernail. I can ride eventide and grind the starlight there. The hair in my ears; on my back is recent. There’s a rainy-day musk I can slide through. I sniff tightly closed blooms, the blue pelt of a twilit distances. Under fading gleams a prowling yen, as I slip through the grease of running shoulder blades. I am not your wolf or mine. I am the moons mirror that follows your own wild thing.