Tufts of fur
caught in the weeds
outside the den,
sticks fragile as squirrel femurs,
and then the tip
of someone’s tail—
the pups are on it,
and they’re all over each other,
planting paws on heads,
standing atop sleepy siblings,
or tussling dreamily in the sun,
round bellies taut,
skinny tails wagging.
At one month old,
their eyes are still sky blue,
but already they lick up
messes of meat, and soon
they’ll lose their baby teeth,
their gaze will go green
then hawk-yellow,
and they’ll join the hunt.
At eight months old,
they’ll have grown into their feet,
though their shoulders
will stay narrow
for slipping between trees
and forging through snow,
and they will cleave the air,
loping mile after mile,
elemental and fell,
knowing by breath and ear,
and, yes, they will rule by fear,
keeping elk herds on their toes
and bison watchful, sure
the pack has blood in its eyes.
Howls cascade across the valley,
singing willows tall and silver,
aspen quaking along the river,
huckleberry thick on the hill.
The pups blink, lift their heads
and answer.
Dana Sonnenschein teaches literature and creative writing at Southern Connecticut State University. Her publications include Corvus, No Angels but These, Natural Forms, and Bear Country. Recent work appears in Feminist Studies, OPEN: JAL, Split Rock Review, and Terrain.org’s Dear America anthology. You can find her @lone_wolf_poet on Twitter, imagewitchery on Instagram, and by name on Facebook.
Banner image courtesy Dana Sonnenschein.
