memory is a deep well
where she seeks the idea of water –
that may or may not
flow underground
of the seeming surface of things
she can no longer smell it;
she has lost – or mislaid –
the wolfish trick of survival
though she snuffles, nose-down
in all the old way,
ears pricked, urgent, excited –
her nose is blind
and can neither find
nor follow the flow.
still, she cannot forgo
the will to hunt
she is driven
by the habit:
at night, when she closes
her yellow dog eyes, she listens
and la loba calls –
then, she is stirred again
by the music of the wild
and for a moment
the old trails
open up to her –
sleek and sure-footed
and swishing her tail,
she goes softly
where she knows
she must be.
