Wolves

by Anne Britting Oleson

From beyond the window, cold glass--
their cries are what wakes you.
Right now, high up on the ridgeline,
but coming ever closer:
the howls of the desolate.

The wolves glide outside in the night.
In your mind’s eye you can see them,
even be them, pacing
around the sleeping house.

Their howls are desolate.
They are ghosts, all,
peering in at you,
with eyes burning red
from fury, tears--your eyes.

Around the sleeping house,
prowling, howling, inviting--
and all that separates you,
as you move from unquiet bed
to window, is this cold glass--

reflecting fury, tears, your eyes--
which, as you press your palm to it,
open your throat to join
the wild song, melts away
and you fall to all fours
gliding outside to the night.