We were once black furred wolves,
fleeing through pines
toward winter’s dark mouth,
mocking the wooden ravens
who clod through snow
to hide from constellations.
Danger haunted each pine,
but we were drunk on moonlight,
taunting the eyes that stalked us.
In a pale clearing,
you asked, Wouldn’t it be romantic
to die beneath the stars?
But morning came before death.
We woke in a treeless acre,
knowing this was not our promised land.
Excerpt from A Place Where Runaways Hide. Purchase.