Wolfs

I keep on seeing wolverine friends walk by. Be they huskies, wolves, long dogs and grey, even a chance fox in the basement - but this was freaked out where the wolfs - I like the word better without the 'v', itmakes it more like them; strong, marginal, spare, knowing and wise but with the scent of danger and wild longings about them - where most of these omen friends seem almost placid - and maybe their wildness has drained into a feral or domestic basin, as so many seem to tug tethers to a man, its true - they are there on every corner, at each approach to nowhere.

What is this? I say 'omen friends' 'cos whilst so many jog by, content and quiet, focused on the way ahead (where to? Do they drag their de- domestised feral men-pets behind them north? To the wild woods? To the creek or the mountain crag where the moon bids them cry out their long wolfy names to the four winds?), they each speak a secret..

The same secret? The same spell of nonsense, quietude, profundity? A wolverine quire conspires to sing a one-note symphony to my quivering ears, to my whiskered cheeks? What is this note, this spell, this secret? Were that you could tell, little handheld, stupid ether, blank void. Were that my asking you this with little pokes of this telescpic stylus would result in some resounding shout a big 'yEs', a flash or beaten pan in the mudflat nights.

As I write (and as I interact with my geo/physical friends, increasingly), I sense a madness, a homelessness of the mind. A space before the question, the silence before the waves move.. The bump in the cycle as the lead wheel overlaps again, a tremulous little hil to climb and fall again. The wolfs are at my door tonight, and tonight I've no question but the wild. Tonight I'm leaving. I'm gone.