My pup’s run off again,
after deer. He can’t help himself.
I can hear him screaming
joyous as he hops through snow,
crossing barbed wire. His bounds
are akin to an ancestor,
closer than anybody here cares to see.
This is where the first wolf
reintroduced to Yellowstone
was shot down.
His paws look it. His ears look it.
His stride looks it. His fur looks it.
He looks it. And those trucks,
parked down on the road,
they know all of the above.
But they see me, running,
falling in snow drifts, following
the tug of my coonhound.
I got no clue where the wolfdog is,
but we’ve found three big bucks,
flushed them from trees,
and I haven’t heard a gunshot,
yet. We are still on the trail,
big prints leaving evidence,
that would leave a rancher
blood thirsty. You’re just having fun
but when I find you, I’m gonna hit you.
I’m scared, waiting for a gunshot,
when you trot up behind me.
Stephen Brown, Canary, Number 39, Winter 2017-18.