Shadow Mountain
A Memoir of Wolves, a Woman, and the Wild
Chapter One
On this cold night
winter's last rally
rakes across the fledgling breast
of spring like claws. The last white bear
turns, hungering,
northward.
We put on layers of sweaters again
and light a circle of lamps
deep in the heart of the house. But
we are restless, keep listening.
You are the first to get up.
You pace a few silent steps
then go. Upstairs I find you
perched at the window,
an early stork
staring from the slender chimney
of your bones down
at icy slivers of teeth
slicing into tender garden growth.
Without thinking why
we gather the afghans
and carefully fold our long limbs
down into them.
With a soft ritual clicking of bills,
necks twining, wings rising,
we begin
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