Wolf's Track

Wolf’s Track

The steady staple shrew tracks ended in 

owl wing hush, a loss

so singular I mourned. Last night, the long 

late winter sun 

stained the mudflats frozen rose, the clear sky 

persimmon. Even the mountains blushed. 

Today, fresh snow coats the wind-scoured 

corn, a wet blanket

of white felt. In it

our tracks are sloppy. Boot slide 

crust punch dog

print loops

bisected neatly by a single wolf’s track, an arrow sent 


to the mountains. This precision 

haunts me, a distraction

in the cyclical sigh of melt and drip. 

Even now the trees shake

the dogs emerge

in a spray of snow 

and branch, tongues lolling 

around delight. Their coats are sticky with death

a half-frozen smear 

of joy. Panting, they glow in the long late winter 

sun, tails tracing invitations in the air.

Share this article

Leave a Reply