There used to be wolves in the city. They ran alongside the Indian tribes who revered them and taught them Nature's magicks. Back in the time when vehicles did not pollute and kill, when the raw wisdom of these magnificent creatures meant something.
Did I have to follow the ensuing political wars and invasions? Did I have to sleep for another turn of the Wheel? Why was I not spared for the carousel? Why couldn't I be a part of the band from eternal beginning to impossible finality?
I hear them howl, hear their plaintive songs in tune with the sage brushed drum beats....as they called Eagle and Fox, Willow Tree and Spring Lake, I called Hecate and Pan, and everyone communed harmoniously...The glory before the bigwigs...to bottle that for the salt sprinkling - that is all part of deciphering the passwords. What's left of the parks still don't convey what I once walked upon, what zillions of returned souls may not even remain cognizant as being their homeland.
Does he know the wolves? The woods that enticed and entranced and proved to be an energy far beyond mundane weaknesses? Does he know how it feels to have once run unfettered, to burn for the burn that signified a life controlled by nothing, a detour into what this planet truly represented?
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