Wed, 06/21/2017 - 15:25 -- hwolf

The Wolf slipped into the woods

moving like an eastward trade wind.

Swift, invisible, predatory,

these were the traits he and his ancestors relied on

for time immemorial,

until shotguns and knives undercut their majesty.


The Wolf lived in a time of drought and fire

when lumberjacks and hunters

deemed themselves kings of the land,

and shared cabins built from the once-magic trees

and sat around fires

that burned pungent and painful all night.


So the Wolf remained hidden

whenever he heard that human cadence

of paper mills

and construction

and cattle farms.


But today there was no fear in this enchanted forest.

The Wolf spotted Little Red,

who chased butterflies in a rare patch of meadow.

He could breathe in deeply for the first time,

because she was the only one in sight.


And she had no pistol,

nothing to prepare a pelt with.


Butterflies fluttered about in circles,

in straight lines,

in zig zags.  

Little Red laughed and followed them,

tripping over her cloak,


but sweet.


When she grew tired from chasing them,

she rested on a stump of a cut-down tree.

Nothing seemed amiss to her innocent eyes.


At once,

the enchanted tree no longer camouflaged the Wolf.

The dried leaves of autumn crunched under his paws

and his shadow

covered the forest floor.


Little Red peered from below her hood

as the Wolf offered his paw. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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