A dank mist hanging in the air, veiling the gloomy mountain tops.

Sunlight trapped behind the clouds, wailing.

The weeping is a mere drone in the woods, a hum skimming over the yonder.  

The sun’s absence leaves the vista dark and seething,

as though the dregs of night still hang in the air.

The crackling of leaves slices through the mist, the fog again filling the space—

sinuously loping between the trees, its speed lifting the heads of fallen leaves, a wolf.

Silver strands of silk woven into its skin, the darkest shade of ebony a river down its back.

Burning topaz molded into a pair of spheres, its eyes, such an intense knowledge in its pools.

Welled deep in the woods is a stream of flowing crystal—

from this stream of water, the wolf drinks.

—Mar. 30, 2010