Moyn

March 17, 2012, 10 p.m.
A single word
From within the treeline
Of an inky Alabama forest.
Was it from the one
Caught on thermal the night before
Ten feet tall?

“Moyn”
Clear as any human neighbor
Not chatter,
Not an isolated segment of a garbled stream of animal grunts and whistles
Just a lone sound, a word, clear and unmistakeable
A single syllable, a dipthong–
“Moyn.”

Possible translations:

Stay back.
They’re back.
Shorties
Ones who wear plants
Ones who wear pants
Ones who roll in strange machines
Ones who kill by looking through sticks
Ones who want to find us
Ones who don’t know the first thing about hiding
Ones who create fire
Ones who drink with their hands and then get loud

“Moyn”

Ones who leave garbage wherever they go
Ones who can’t be still
Ones who sleep at night
Ones who can’t stop talking
Ones who hold their meat over aforementioned fire
Ones who need tools to fell trees

“Moyn”

It’s starting to rain.
I’m hungry.
Is that a 2007 Grand Cherokee?

“Moyn”

Where are you?
Are you seeing what I’m seeing?
How can I help you?
Take one step toward my babies and I’ll snap your neck like an uncooked egg noodle.

“Moyn”

This one is
Mine.

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