Of the Wolves

I am never alone.

The forest air,

spicy and clean, is

cold in the nose and hot in the throat.

Clouded breath, in the chase of

rabbits and squirrels.

Underfoot: pine needles,

leaves, and wild vines—

fresh earth, torn by claws

from the hunt.

To the left, to the right

ahead and behind:

my pack.

We talk to each other

calling out

the secret words of wolves,

our mother tongue.

I am never alone, and because

I am never alone,

I am never far from home.

During the day,

I live the good life with

my holiday sweater and

birthday cookie.

I wait for my dinner.

I am a Good Dog.

But at night,

when I sleep—

here in my house,

on this expensive memory foam bed

where I am safe, warm, and dry—

my eyes twitch.

My feet move.

I am in the forest.

I run on the cool dirt,

on the hunt,

alive with the memory of the

scent of rabbit, and

I call to my pack

in our ancient language.

I am never alone.

I am never alone.

I am once again

of The Wolves.

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