Harvest Moon

I hunt at night. A harvester of souls
is far too mild a term. I tear out throats.
Don't judge me by mere human mores, roles.
Mine is no simple sowing of wild oats.

Rare are the nights that help me in my hunt.
Some are too cloudy; some are wholly black.
For me there is no satisfying grunt,
unless I see the moonlit victim's back.

Oh, harvest moon, why must you be so rare?
Why must you wait for that time of the year,
when noise from the cicadas fills the air
and pumpkins sit out grinning, ear to ear?

I wouldn't be a werewolf without you.
Come light my kill, I've just begun to chew.