Muskoxen, shadowed at a distance. Patience stretches out beyond sight.
Teeth flash, dispense a violent peace. White muzzle drips blood red.
The next day, her riverside dance was pensive.
I watched. Joyous. Troubled. Reverent.
We followed her, elusive. This place, tent rings thousands of years old.
A knowledge, lost all these years. Unless you are wolf.
Did you lead us here?
A pack around us. The howling snares my breath somewhere between lungs and throat. I feel it through the soles of my feet. They are nowhere to be seen, the invisible blinds me.
What do you want of me, wolf?
Shall I speak what is lost inside me?
Author: Dave Weir Photo: Dave Quinn