Wendigo
As nights grow long on Lac la Biche,
the lake it freezes, the snow it falls
and the wind she always blows.
Wolves howl through long cold dark,
and prowl neath Aurora's flicker,
yet fearsome more than
winter and wolves
there comes a man,
no longer man,
they call the
Wendigo.
The waning moon rose over
a frigid land and I feared
I’d met my end.
The handful of hares
which fell to my snares
filled stomach but wasted flesh.
As strength and wit grew dim,
by hunger driven mad,
I longed for sweet bone marrow.
Late that night as the fire grew low
a shuffling tread drew nigh
the air was dank with beastly rank
and split by ghostly cry.
I rolled right to miss the blow
and grabbed my axe to counter.
Time stood still, I felt a chill
as iron vanquished bone.
All that morn, I gathered bush
to make the funeral pyre
at stroke of noon, I struck the flint
to cleanse the beast by fire.
Orange flames leapt high
and black smoke higher
till only ash remained
but there amidst the cinders
lay a roasted marrow bone.
In the silver moon of the Boreal night
beware one who walks alone.
Stay in your cabin with fire ablaze
and venture out not till dawn.
10/27/2016
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