A Wolf

He shelters under a Sitka 

laden with snow.

Salt and pepper flanks

rise like a bellows, up and down.

Peonies bloom from his mouth,

rise among stars, constellations,

evaporate over the valley he hunted. 

Sometimes, he waited days to strike,

carnassial clamping ungulate's windpipe shut.

They whirled in a dusty dervish

till there was 

no beat.

 

Whimpering like a pup

in the makeshift den, 

he dreams of blood,

feasting with the pack.

Their howls held them together,

sinews of sound, distant, fading.

He listens for those songs

that bind him to the earth 

no more

 



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