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I never knew what to think of her howling--
her silence was more devastating.
A clever bitch who stalked her prey
and let them think
they were stalking her.
She called herself a fox,
but I saw right through her shining leather and
glossed furs.
She was a she-wolf--
traveling without a pack,
no hope for redemption.

This was in the early years.

Now, I see a broken bird of prey,
and I resent her for it.
Shot down by a clever huntsman and
locked in his cage--
she never even got what
she was searching for.
Left with a series of broken nests
made with rotten straw and
shoe-string nooses.
I wonder if she really flew at all.

And I do not know what's coming.

How often do the hunters turned hunted
survive the winter?
In the winter of her life she is slipping.
Can't go for the jugular when there is too much to lose.
Can't see through
the drifting snow.
Frozen, bloody carcasses scattered
across slush and ice--
nothing but carnage and then
nothing at all.