In the snow, paw prints edge
toward an unknown longitude
set against distant whites and
lamplights of winterized cabins
drawing outlines on property
lines of figure eights that trail
off into the twilight. There is talk
at kitchen tables, among hunters
and wives, and acts of primacy;
of whether our friend was feral,
ready for hot blood. There are
muffled noises in the distance,
not human, and the branches
break every now and then. It
could be rabbit, or a missing dog –
but it could be a wolf. I heard
neighbours say they found a dead
animal carcass the other day. The
fire is dying – I’ll try to keep it lit
until morning.
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