runs over Wyoming’s spinal ridges.

Hidden in pack-tracks, she arrives
and departs, nakedly undetectable.

Over trees, a hawk flies
as satellite to the most beautiful wolf. 

Between is corn-dust, fiber-needle
mapping the air spiritual.

Gray blur gnawing into blue sky.

As wolf eleven, she’s
the dolphin-shadow—the liquid-mystery.

Her hair grows of the old man’s nose;
her eyes gleam sun, puddle on Magnolia leaves,
sinister as dew.

Her teeth strike, the flash of knives turning
into flesh: skin lacera, blood-swamp.