In front there, Iowan earth, close,
A root? A twig? A long stone?
Something he had not seen for all his looking?
The fire spurts up flame.
He sees a glint of little stones .
Yes, pebbles,
yes-yes-
But no, not stones, but long white claws.
Rain washed claws from the bones on the hill?
No, no, live claws and the line of a paw.
A black rank presence.
He sits like a stone, from fear.
That beast, so close,
What?
Bear? Wolf?
The paw reaches to his foot.
Clouds are lightening,
Black thins to dark.
A wolf sits there,
Big black wolf.
Out in the trees the pack watches,
They must be watching, eyes shining,
How their big wolf crouches
At the mouth of the cave,
Near the man,
Near the sleepers in their pelts.
They dream of endless night.
The Misfit
He was born small.
But there was food then,
The cold time short,
Everywhere the young of beasts and People.
A good time, and so he lived.
Small, but he ran like a wolf.
Small, but he threw a stone to kill.
Small, but used an axe and made them.
