Tonight a blood moon will rise. This isn’t about lycanthropy although the moon will have the fullness that metamorphosis demands. The sky will be clouded the now crimson moon, the planet that wears the palette as its nature will lurk out of sight and we, lost in dreams, will imagine what our eyes are unable to see.
He strains mightily to hear the sound of a wolf. He knows the voice of coyote well, and here they are ever-present. But wolf is a different creature. He knows coyote will try to take the shape and voice of wolf. But an elder such as he can tell the difference. Wolf is his totem, and each day the man knows he grows closer to death. He wants to speak with wolf one last time, out here, among the sage and jackrabbits. He wants to sit with wolf and stare at the thickening moon and leave the wolf his story to impart to another generation.
The man sits, waiting patiently for the wolf to arrive. It has been far too long, this wait, as the Wolf has his lair in the distant mountain, and has little use for the people in the city, in the place where the man sits waiting. The man is sure they met once, although he is now beginning to wonder if it was simply coyote assuming the shape of his lupine imagination. The man cannot or will not say why he wishes to see the Wolf, it is enough for him to have the desire, and he knows that once wolf arrives, he and the Wolf together will sing a piercing song to the moon.