Timing is everything
and what precision
to come upon the licked-clean rungs of a ribcage
rank smell of appetite,
dangling snags of flesh too tough to trouble with
too mere to pull, to snap from the bone
The caribou's back an arc of torn tawny skin,
its limbs twisted in bramble, head sulking in mud
Pods of scat crossing our trail still soft:
were our footsteps a warning? pups nearby?
You'll never see a wolf here, they said,
reclusive and few but an hour later, three
pace beside us along the riverbed
not fast or slow, just on their way, parallel,
coats tinged pink
while in the cave of carcass left behind,
the heart of coincidence beating
Published in Sugar Mule
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