Medicine Wolves

The wolves were always with us,
deep inside our psyches,
long after their evaporated paws
no longer tripped our traps,
and bullets ripped illusions
crouched in sagebrush bodies.
I lift their voices to the moon;
become the wolf,
haunt my vacant dreams:
shadows of shadows,
smoky shapes above the fire,
eyes of sparks gone out.

Now, returned to slink
among grey ghosts,
their medicine fills the earth,
trickles down each stream;
every tree and blade of grass
attunes to what was lost;
The elk and bison stir an
ancient wisdom quenched.
An eerie summons calls
me to the pack,
I the hunter, revel in the
resurrection of a world,
harried to its death,
while I remained alive.
I feel it rise in ancient blood,
my primeval urge to kill.
I hear them claim the night,
their title to the hills.
I watch them fill their empty dens,
my finger on the trigger.

 

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