I cringe at wolves' full-throated howls,
the caws of crows and screech of owls,
the footfalls as the panther prowls.
The hunter's moon is bleeding red.

If silence comes, a twig will snap,
a pack of wild dogs yelp and yap,
the gods produce a thunder clap.
My mind is filled with doom and dread.

A bat swoops low to grasp its prey,
coyotes circle as they bay
at hapless fawns who've gone astray.
I hear the shrieks of one soon dead.

The witching hour has claimed the night
with claws that shred and teeth that bite,
with fangs whose venom causes blight.
Why did I not just stay in bed?