Today I saw
a black wolf lying dead
in the back of a pickup
bloodied,
one half-opened eye glazed.
I wondered what it had done wrong.
* * *
And God gave man dominion over all of the
Earth and over the beasts of the field and the birds
of the air and fishes of the sea and over every
creeping thing that creeps upon the earth...
May their judgment be not too heavy upon us.
II
Nighttime, a million stars all agleam.
Five men sitting around a campfire on the prairie
a long time ago during the beginning of the end
talking quietly,
their tethered horses shifting nervously
in the shadows,
the firelight playing on their bearded faces.
From the surrounding hills comes the howling.
* * *
The dormant primevil beast will not lie quiet.
Pushed to the very back of your innermost being
like a shameful secret; caged, starved, beaten, chained,
yet it will not keep silent.
Behind the boarded-up doors of your deepest conscious
it howls and yowls and screams.
And you hear it. That warning echo from the distant mountains
in your mind that you've never even climbed.
In the great cage of concrete and steel and flashing
neon signs the animal within you screams and screams.
Screams out in warning of a world gone mad.
Of a life that was never supposed to be.
Screaming, howling, yowling, running round and around,
its fur falling out, chewing on its feet till they bleed,
pawing at the boards, gnawing at your barriers with
splinter-pierced jaws...
* * *
A wolfpack running across the snow-dusted tundra.
They leave long twisting trails in the expanse of white as they
go; swerving, weaving, doubling back and running
again, pink tongues flopping. It's almost like they're dancing.
What else can they do?
The man above them in the plane takes careful aim.
The government of Alaska pays him to do this.
More bodies in the snow, more money in the bank.
His rifle barks; below him the wolves start to die.
What else can he do?
* * *
The dormant primevil beast has awakened.
Madness threatens. Stop it.
Put the shotgun against its head, pull the trigger.
Drag the body as deep into you as you can go.
Into the basement, yes, where we leave
all our problems and wastes to pile up.
Leave it amid the coffins of worthless dreams
and blasphemous thoughts.
The beast is dead, its howls silenced.
Your peace of mind returns. Everything is fine.
Whatever could have been wrong in the first place?
Put the booted foot of conquest on its head.
Pose for the cameras.
Then try to forget.
* * *
Does Death distinguish between the human and the animal?
Does he play favorites? Does he prefer one over the other?
No.
The skulls of both man and beast
will bleach white together
under the burning sun.
Bone is bone. Dust is dust.
III
Walking along a forest trail, insects humming in his
ears, sweat-stains under his arms, trying to brake in
his new hiking boots. Ranks of trees on every side,
narrow dirt trail ahead. He keeps on walking.
All alone, lost in his thoughts. Here he can think.
Here he could say anything out loud and no one would care.
He stumbles on a half-buried rock and pauses for
a moment, catching his breath, wishing he had done
this more when he was younger.
Paws that make no sound on the pine needles;
whiskers, eyes, ears, all focused on the weakened pray.
Stalking silent and soundless, waiting for the
right moment;
only one chance to make the strike.
The forest holds its breath.
Here all the problems in his life do not exist,
here he can move and breathe without feeling
like his being is trapped in a vice.
But he is growing tired, his feet are getting sore.
He raises his water bottle to his lips and
begins to to drink.
Yes, he confirms to himself:
I should have done this more when I was younger.
Now; now is the right moment, the perfect time.
The paws blur over the ground, legs moving together
in perfect rhythm, heartbeat accelerating. Slipping
among the pines, still silent, the sunlight brightening
its light brown pelt, closer, closer...
The cougar hits the man from behind, fastening its jaws
on the back of his neck.
The water bottle falls onto the dirt trail.
Tomorrow the park will be filled with rangers
with shotguns and dogs. Headlines will appear
in all the local newspapers,
the story will be told in the hunting magazines.
The man's family will mourn.
Cougars will die.
The world will move on.
* * *
If you want your death to be remembered,
but you do not want to die in the presence of others,
then go into the wild
and offer yourself to the beasts;
to the hungry earth.
In the wild being a human means nothing.
In the wild all illusions about yourself vanish.
In the wild there is only truth
and one truth is that in the presence of Death
and whatever form it takes
we are all the same.
IV
I did not see
the dead black wolf
with my own eyes.
I saw it in a photo
on the Internet;
that cyberworld where every human
atrocity and triumph
can be viewed with cool detachment
from a swivel chair.
* * *
I once saw a living wolf
with my own eyes.
I felt jaws that could crush
an elk's leg bone
gently mouth my face.
I felt the sharp fangs,
the questing tongue.
I looked in the golden-brown eyes
and saw no hate
for all the past crimes done.
No hate to mach the hate
so many feel towards her kind.
I saw only
a keen awareness,
an aliveness that was
present in every single move
she made;
a beingness that we could
never mach and
possibly never experience.
* * *
Later that night
sitting with my companions
around the fire
under a million shining stars
we stopped talking
and listened to the wolves
howling all around us,
singing of things
unknown and forgotten
to modern man.
And deep within myself
the dormant primevil beast
awoke from its sleep
and silently joined in.
