The wolf is running away through blinding snow.
Or is it running toward something? Depends
on perspective, if it exists. Who knows
in blinding snow but the wolf. Each sense sends
vibrations like radar -- don’t you suppose --
catalysts of survival skills, instincts
maybe, honed in ancient days. Does it close
in on prey or retreat as each lithe leg sinks
deep in white, its fur off-white, form almost
invisible, phantom purveyor of
ghost legends among the tribes, dashing ghost
through trees, elusive as abandoned loves
your memory befogs, even contrives.
Ghosts who contort you at night, like lost lives.
Roger Armbrust
June 8, 2020
