So much mythology to shoulder
for an animal.
Thirty full moons bathed your howling,
but you never cared
about the moon.
For centuries you roamed this continent.
We came carrying the burden
of folk tales—
memories of plagues,
the dead left in the night,
you finding your way
to the piles of meat.
So many legends, and curses.
You grow older,
dark fur starts to silver.
Turning into a true gray wolf.
You will wander the forests, the creeks,
howl, hunt, mate,
raise your young.
And one day you will cross
the Little Snake River,
a stream in the drought of August,
and you will be shot
legally
in Wyoming.
First appeared in Moss Puppy Magazine, Spring ’26