Shoot the Moon

I'm halfway down and the sky
turns silver. Cotton-cold ice
becomes skeins of ghosts twisting around my legs,
dissolving into moonlight. The air

Doesn't sting and sing, but slides
past fur. I would chase the geese,
drooling at the moment of fat and feathes
but wolves don't have wings. Only claws

Suddenly too short to reach the cord.
Howling in the sky. I can only pray that
I land on my paws.