Out In the Black

That night,
I stared up at a bright night sky,
country bright without urban competition,
and whistled quiet and low,
waited on the moon
to come down into my throat
and refine that wasted voice,
waited on hopeless wonder,
hopeful,
heart thump-thumping out in the black,
and hoped there were wolves
in the dark line of trees
watching my neck,
white against the wood.