They are always saying, the others, “Be what you are!”
There are wolves in a dark wood running
on the track of deer.
The crusted snow
crunches under their paws
and flashing hooves.
The wind
ruffles their fur—rubs dark their tawny haunches.
Their tongues hang down
red-flagging the moon.
And in the sky
an owl makes quiet rings.
When the hunt is done
shall I lie
lashing the hard, white snow crust with my hooves,
lick up the pools
that sink in the frosty snow in red circles,
or float in the sky
composing the whole dark picture
under my wings?
