A Wolf

He shelters under a Sitka 

heavy with snow.

His salt and pepper flanks

rise up and down.

Misty Peonies bloom from his mouth,

they scatter among stars and constellations,

evaporating over the valley he hunted,

creeping at a distance, noting weakness and disease. 

Sometimes,

he waited days to strike,

carnassial clamping ungulate's windpipe shut,

they whirled like dusty dervishes

till there was 

no beat.

 

Like a pup, the wolf whimpers

in a makeshift den, starving, but satiated

while dreaming of blood.

He remembers feasting, resting with the pack.

Even apart, their howls held them together,

sinews of sound, breaking away.

He closes his eyes,

listening

listening

for those songs

that bind him to the earth 

no more

 



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