Wolf, the Untamable
by Tracy Mitchell

Today I have the trail to myself.
Sun, sky, a morning pathway.

Pinion, red cedar and juniper intersperse
with the yellow blossoms of Whipple cholla,
and the red radiance of scarlet hedgehogs.

When I hush long enough, hawks fill the updrafts
with some amalgam of tag and follow the leader.
They come to play, float, and stretch their wings.

I recall pretending as a kid to be an army scout–
finder of trails, water and safe camping. I saw
mountains, the passes, the imagined dangers.

Now I laugh to myself and pretend I am a wolf,
vested with solitude, patience and observance.
Seeking those moments, those things invisible
to an army scout–the interplay between

the swallowtails and the parnassians,
Indian paintbrush and columbine, purple
owl’s clover, and golden rod and vervain.

Dust rises, as the sun draws hotter. I feel
satisfaction for every stride which does not
put me down a ravine, or drop me to my knees.

I am an old wolf, many years retired, delighted
when at times I forget from what. I try to be
a good man. But the course of that river

is long settled and unchangeable, and now I breathe
deeply in a mountain meadow, in full tenured residence
of nature’s cathedral–me, the bees and the butterflies
on this, a dreamy, long, delicious afternoon.


 

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