The Wolves
They are there again tonight
ahead, at the bend in the road,
their shapes the dark ground
of a ritual I cannot explain
the proud silver-gray, the mottled
other, and at the lead, as always
the strange and powerful black
gleaming like onyx
their eyes catching cold fire
in the beam of my lights
as I swing into the curve
that will turn me away from them.
Again, I brake almost
to a stop, again almost
step out of my car
instinctively, the way bodies
slip out of cocoons
or skin, but something -
their stillness - stops me,
that is, keeps me moving
through the frozen night,
remembering it is always winter
when I see them, always
this stark back-drop of snow.
Yet I know they must be there
in all seasons, moving higher along
the hill, perhaps watching among pines
until some sign calls them down
to this bend, bright eyes dimming
as I spin away, breaking trail
through drifts of their silence
and this terrible urge to stop.
(reprinted with thanks from both Border Crossings,
New Rivers Press, and The Northfield Magazine)
