Call of the Wolf

 

I never thought myself a wolf. Silverish,

Lone, remembering: these things, yes.

At times, lupine; at times, somehow humane.

But never such a creature of the moon.

 

I had never felt the pull of the roguish pack;

Nor the wandering menace of the derelict:

Though I had the hungering gait, right to the bone,

And I’d often been seen to flash a sideways grin.

 

But recent moons have, as me, waned and waxed.

A family has found me at my rest.

I heard their call. Its howl has called me back

To some more loving wildness, maverick.

 

At lonesome last the route, my roaming home

Has found me, in the wolf-embrace of him.

 

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