Prints like black words

on a page

divide the mud

what kind of history

is written in bones,

hair stuck in sap on a pine,

prints in mud?

What if I discover

that judgment depends

on a home lair

that can be reclaimed

by touch

and not by knowledge

of the evolution of stars

or words with political savvy?

A foot

leads to the conclusion"a foot

and spine of the boar

white beyond the snow

black hairs

like seeds of

spontaneous regeneration

Veils of fog, veils for

the bride of mating, whose

trail of hot-blooded prints goes around

in circles, with the male making

larger circles around

until the circles overlap

in place.

Who's world is this? Not mine

Hers, a deeper world

whose dimensions and depth surpass.

Seen no wolves

but feel the spirit infused

on every blade or crumb of dirt.

Now I am just another image,

another threat, unknown to be avoided

with the uncertain ice, the dangerous weather

the uncertain prey

A voice rises

it is pure singing, made more pure

by distance and untouchableness

My mouth opens in response

but I cannot participate

it would have less meaning

so I listen

Closer to the lair is more silence

I finally find that I cannot go

there; it is not my place

I need not know

immediately

I can wait and watch and listen

and learn

From my rough shelter

I think of their shelter

lined and warmer.

Without distractions I am more alive

uncomfortable, cold, hungry

I have bread and water, chocolate.

Paths appear, paths open.