​By day 

​I hid in the ferns 

​pressed to the earth, 

​dressed in a coat 

​brown as turf. 

​

​Sunlight warmed the patches where

​my wolf pack once lay. 

Day after day

​childflesh spills past the wire;

​they pause, point and stare -

​I size them up -

​glare back -

​through thin red eyes.

​

​Years back

​my sister caught one -

​cracked a finger -

​left the childflesh to scowl and howl.

​The next day 

​they took my sister away.

​But her smell stayed trapped in the earth's spoor. 

​

​It took a full moon's span for it to fade. 

​

​Now, alone, 

​I watch

​and wait for her. 

​At night

​the stars glisten.

​I listen for the pack.

​I sing to the moon.

​

​I croon an ancient tune.

​But she is muzzled

​and cannot answer back.