From the clouding gray of leafless endless branches
it bursts into view along the timber sprawled borders
of a hushed path where a rock wolf on granite haunches
was what was most guessed to prize the image hoarders,
a suddenly there dramatic cliff that yawns with height,
an immediate rise of quartzite from soft brown sponge
and green moss, the scattered snowlike sense of white
that catches the eye's corner and, almost deja vu, plunges
into self a sense of something to be scaled and divined.
There is no sense of the wolf in likeness to apprehend,
only the makeshift joy of hewn thrones under scrubby pines
and a crevice table spread with apples, cheese, and pita bread.
The faint sliver of a crescent moon over gray veins diurnal
is the howl of a wolf that stays a howl though mutely internal.