Of the Wolves

The secret words of wolves, our mother tongue.

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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