Eye of the Wolf

In the scarred land


Under the wind-haunted skies


By the village that is marked on no map,


With no history, no tribe, no country.


Where the wind wails,


Through the worn


Windows of mud brick,


Past the edge


Of the gap


In the barrier




Shining paws




In the shadowed circle.


Silver tails


Flick, flick.


Let us go quickly


Now, to follow


The call


Of the black plateau


Where the rocks stand




In the billowing


Grass.  It is better to go


To see the wide, white jaws


Of the wolf than to sit, sipping


Bitter stones in this village


Of empty




Than to sit by the torn


Stumps of corn


That crackle


Like pale scales


In the dry-finned wind.


Let us go quickly


Now, and gladly


Into the courage


Of the eye


Of the wolf, into


The brave-riven flame


Of the night with no name.


Where only the lone




Of the owl-hooded harrier




From rock to rough-rued rock


In the soul of the dawn,


In the song of the stone,


In the winged wind


That will fly through the open sky


And forever be gone.


Written around 2003


Photo: © Thomas Barrat / dreamstime.com


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