A Wolf Remembers

Under a snow-heavy Sitka, an old hunter rests on his side. Bleeding, his flank works like a bellows, up and down. Past the tree line, his mouth expels misty roses. They rise, then evaporate near Orion's bow, over the valley he hunted three days ago.

He waited for days in the shadows, to launch a strike, Biting the  caribou throat, locked on, they whirled in a wild quickstep till it all went still.

Now, he whimpers like a pup learning the game. In his dreams, gore splashes snow, the pack in the midst of blood, howling. Their singing bound the hills together—kept all in place. 

That was two years ago.

He listens and waits as he's waited each night, the connection loosening like a  slippery knot, he falls into the dream below the piling snow. Listening, listening, listening.


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