The Devil, The Moon, and the River

I went ambling down Connecticut on a March day
to play the tourist, a flaneur, my tools at hand:
a pen, a notebook, and a small camera,
intent on capturing the elusive betes of devils at play in the sun.
I watched keenly for glimpses of hooves
clattering along the sidewalk in khakis,
flicked my eyes across the seats of tourists
straining to spot the bulge of a tail,
and most of all, suspiciously eyed
those strangers that might be masking horns
beneath battered old baseball caps --
I know they're there, strolling as I do,
hunting as I do, stalking as I do,
flicking their eyes about as I do,
searching for the kindred spirits
of lost souls, braying silent calls
to summon their brethren,
calling our kind to the hunt,
to the orgy,
to the river,
to the war,
to the moon.