Predator
Dec 10 2024
A good night for wolves.
A full moon in a clear sky,
and cold still air
to carry the sound.
Their howling haunts the night.
The chorus is soulful, longing, primal.
It feeds on itself,
getting louder
and more insistent
as more join in,
friendly rivals
egging each other on.
It proclaims bonding
belonging
defiance.
It’s the sound of dominance
easy in its power,
a strutting assertion
of territorial rights.
But most of all, it’s family,
the rapid high-pitched yelps
of excitable pups
like the right hand playing counter-point.
I both fear, and admire.
And even though it’s hard to tell
they sound awfully close,
sending shivers down my neck
as tiny hairs prick up.
I am a prey species
primed for flight,
as if some ancestral memory
had been awakened
in my ancient limbic brain.
The dogs
who sleep a lot
and have never brought down prey
are preternaturally alert,
ears cocked
hackles up.
Of course, we are safe inside.
And as I’ve been told, they fear us more.
The ultimate predator
who sees no need to announce himself,
killing from a distance
and merely for sport.
No howling
no furious bravado.
Rather, death comes silently,
methodically,
with cold-eyed stealth.
Because a bullet arrives
before its sound.
Bright red blood on virgin snow
before it’s even felt.
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