Dante's Heart
M. Kathryn Field
The Story of the Wolf
It is written on the blanket of snow
In the shape of a spaded print.
Some strands of coarse fur.
A scent.
There is no word to define his life,
No measure
To his lonely cry,
To the smell of his coat
Caked with deer and elk and
Moose droppings,
To the searching howl for a mate.
He has travelled one hundred miles from his
Birthplace
In search of only that
And such is as clear as the
Mountain water he laps from
Pole Cat creek.
His story is the universal story
The story of relationship and survival.
Our stories are at the whim
Of our perceptions.
As a child, at our own kitchen table, my
Parents shared the story of their
First meeting.
Last year, inside the warm and humble
Hogan I heard the story of
Creation from a Dine elder.
Most recently, the story of Mayah White’s
Birth was recounted to me by
First her mother, then her grandmother.
Our stories are what teach us to be human.
And it seems, too, that their stories
Are what teach wolves to be wolves.
Although these are not for my sake,
It is good to sit and listen
In the softly lit night,
To the howled stories of the wolf.
The Story of the Wolf
It is written on the blanket of snow
In the shape of a spaded print.
Some strands of coarse fur.
A scent.
There is no word to define his life,
No measure
To his lonely cry,
To the smell of his coat
Caked with deer and elk and
Moose droppings,
To the searching howl for a mate.
He has travelled one hundred miles from his
Birthplace
In search of only that
And such is as clear as the
Mountain water he laps from
Pole Cat creek.
His story is the universal story
The story of relationship and survival.
Our stories are at the whim
Of our perceptions.
As a child, at our own kitchen table, my
Parents shared the story of their
First meeting.
Last year, inside the warm and humble
Hogan I heard the story of
Creation from a Dine elder.
Most recently, the story of Mayah White’s
Birth was recounted to me by
First her mother, then her grandmother.
Our stories are what teach us to be human.
And it seems, too, that their stories
Are what teach wolves to be wolves.
Although these are not for my sake,
It is good to sit and listen
In the softly lit night,
To the howled stories of the wolf.
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