Moonwolves

The pack hurtles across the crater:
a volley of bodies;
salvoes of flying feet and jaws
and tails trailed like banners.

Each footfall leaves
a slow silver fountain.

What is it they hunt?
Onager or wapiti, wildebeeste, moa?
(Once it was a two-legged ghost
that vanished as they struck.)
Lumbering aurochs or swift stiltlike dinornid,
at the end it falls under
their teeth in
a welter of
microprocessors, effectuators,
metal shards and
a strangely satisfied hunger.

As shadow spills into their bowl
they climb its central peak to await
icy death’s return.

And when darkness laps their feet
they lift their heads to
mourn the blue-white world in the sky.