The werewolf and the moon: they're not so different, you know.
Each one basks in the shade provided by the lack of sun,
waiting for it to return so they can each be concealed
in plain sight – where only they ponder their individual existence.

Both werewolf and moon await the return of an old friend,
a familiar face only they can recognize. Alone,
both gaze over a body of water where the beast they see
is the only beast they know; the comfort they feel is the beauty
others would otherwise associate with a monster.

But, of werewolf and moon, only one is admired, prayed to, and monitored
by its every tilt, its complete rotation patiently awaited, for the comfort
of its monthly return – that we too may be whole again, and by the gift
of nature, herself be granted another chance.

The werewolf among this congregation, by night, is shunned
– its natural practices hunted by fear and ignorance. Its wisdom is nowhere near
as important as that of the great rock that is bound around
and around the earth by forces far greater than our demand.

But by night, both werewolf and moon
await the return of an old friend: the comfort of concealment
from eyes far too drawn to extremes, and appreciation for only the beauty
thatresidesin a state of constant change.