Lay of 253M

Snow crunches as paw presses down.
The cold of the night has made the snow crispy,
Squeaky as snow only is in the deep cold of Wyoming winter.

But quiet! For the wolf he hunts the elk,
And our human noise and scent will as usual,
ruin things if we are discovered.

Quick as night he leaps,
The black wolf leaps, and all is still.
The elk sleeps but will not awake and
The wolf limps over to feed.

Until he notices us, a misplaced footfall
on crunchy show. His ears perk and
Quick as night he is gone,
he leaves, a meal undone,
and I shuffle away in misery
the Lamar stretches around me
His home here is safe for him and his people.

253 can you tell me of Yellowstone?
Can you still feel the pups in the den
your brothers and sisters.
The soft mewling of the newborns.

Can you tell me of the Elk Refuge?
Elk by the thousands,
a heaving multitude of life.
A wolf living like a lottery winner.
And what of Utah?
Full of people, full of traps.

253 can you tell me of Wyoming,
Of the sharp winds of the spring meadows,
how does it feel to be shorter than the flowers
but stronger than the hills?
How does it feel to smell the essence of our world,
long before you see it.

253, can you tell me of the final blackness.
Did you smell them before they shot you?
Did you look them in the eye as an alpha as you died?
I wonder did you understand why they had acted,
while others like me had only been
a jagged interruption on your consciousness.

Did you fade away quietly
Or did you fight as you always had to survive?
Your paw has tread many thousands of miles I will never see
And you will never see, again.

253 know this: we are all too much the same for this.
I know, you know
We are all too much the same.


Copyright 2008 Tenley Thompson.

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