Burning the wild lands, the moon rises gold; gold the eyes of wolves
Running in a rapid crouch up the snowy hill. Exhaling,
I slip into the aspens, follow their tracks into a threshold of
Light under the firs. The moon squats fat among them. I
Linger and watch, afraid. Discard the fantasy that
I could be accepted, that I could be safe, that I could run. With them.
A screech of owl cries. Wolves sing: close chorus, far response.
Nothing contains the fierce sacredness of this music. I want to
Call back from this hidden body. I pluck a tuft of fur from a drift,
Embrace bare branches, moon-bruised sky.
In a cloud-smudged mirror of ice, shadows flicker, a broke
Face of moon shimmers. I whisper: elk, caribou, antelope. Stubbornly,
I reclaim the dream of hunting with the wolves. Oh folly! Will I return to this
Evening over and over, sifting through these images, lies and dreams?
Late-night owl calls again. Wolf tracks fade in drifting snow. I glimpse
Deer, then fox. Braid my tracks into theirs.
No comments:
Post a Comment