The Last Wolf A rendering...

The last wolf wandered
in the light of a setting sun

through the ruined city,
his howls echoing off the
smashed warrens,
a couple lofty crowned
high rises still standing,
elevators useless.

Passing dead traffic signals
he howled his way
eastward, the mystery of
the wild calling out through
his voice, his loping gait
carrying him deeper into
the eternal silence of an
approaching endless night.

Through clutter and rubble
of quiet blocks I heard his
voice ascending the hill,
and at last his low whine
as he climbed floor by empty floor
toward the room where I sat
in my narrow bed
looking west, waiting.

I heard him sniffing at the
open door, and watched
as he walked slowly across
the floor towards me.
He laid his long gray muzzle
on the spare white spread,
his eyes burning bright and yellow,
small dotted eyebrows quivering.

Yes, I said,
I know what we have done

Rendered from a poem by Mary TallMountain

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