Just as gray but prone to sleep
as his cousin schemes, he lies
under brush as you tread by,
startled to his feet only then,
and with a glance, trots away
through dead leaves, as pages of
a legend in which he stands
at this safe distance, breaking
for the hero you never were
the code of lupine ease,
ferocity only when approached
or, as with wolves, in a pack
convened to help him down
and tear apart his prey.

He watches as you pray
to him, for every anima
who isn’t here to see these
seconds of détente, those
tips of canines visible enough
and ears pricked up for the sound
he hears as wolf call
as you hear pebble crunch
and gusts as the sounds
of all the other woods you’ve walked,
hoping to become him,
feral enough to drowse
in dry leaves, solitary
save for hunting, but intrigued by
another creature curious
and half-civilized.