A Leg of Deer
Jan 21 2011


In the depth of winter
a leg of deer,
dismembered.

The cloven hoof
tapered sleekly,
like a ballerina en pointe
in stiff black slippers.
The lower limb
tawny fur intact,
too thin
for such a big animal.
And above the joint, gnawed to the bone
it seemed almost festive,
flecked white and red
with fat, and flesh.

The dog bounded out of the bush
triumphant,
the prized leg clamped in her jaws.
Wolves, I thought,
prowling the forest
unseen, unheard.

The dog would be easy pickings
out in the yard.
I can just imagine hard barking
tail, furiously carving the air,
the mock bravado
of the pampered dog.
Outside, it was a cold locker,
so I hung it by the elbow
in a grisly “V”,
well out of reach.

And all night, I listened hard for their howling,
the full moon glorious
a fresh kill to gorge.
There is something primeval
and thrilling
about the sound of wolves,
this far from the end of the road.
The atavistic fear
of wolves.
And wolves,
who fear men …even more.