The Wolf
(after Alfred de Vigny)
He glided through the somber pines,
a shark in surly ocean.
In truth, I loved his sleek, low lines,
the danger in his motion.
Wild creatures do the best they can
to keep their young ones fed,
and I'm ashamed to be a man -
I shot the snow wolf dead.
The first ball doesn't always kill.
He'd need another round.
I tracked his blood up Cullen Hill,
to where he'd gone to ground.
To meet with death, he chose his place
under a dogwood tree:
as I beheld his handsome face,
he blazed fierce eyes at me.
He knew the game was up at last,
nowhere to run or hide:
but in that glare, a meaning passed
that's scalded me inside.
I saw acceptance in his look,
and dignity, and hurt.
And wonder, at the time I took,
as I knelt in the dirt.
"It's how it is," the green eyes said,
"to moan or whine is weak.
You've done for me. I'll soon be dead.
There are no words to speak."
I did it with my hunting knife,
then wept hard for my friend.
I pray I'll own his grace in life,
his courage at my end.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
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