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The wolf god.

Like a painting we will be erased, no one can remain. I saw my life as a wolf loping along the road and I questioned the women of that place. Some regard the wolf as immortal, they said. Now you know this only happened in one case and that wolves die regularly of various causes-- bears kill them, tigers hunt them, they get epilepsy, they get a salmon bone crosswise in their throat, they run themselves to death no one knows why--but perhaps you never heard of their ear trouble. They have very good ears, can hear a cloud pass overhead. And sometimes it happens that a windblown seed will bury itself in the aural canal displacing equilibrium. They go mad trying to stand upright, nothing to link with. Die of anger. Only one we know learned to go along with it. He took small steps at first, using the updrafts. They called him Huizkol, that means Looks Good In Spring. Things are as hard as you make them.
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Author:Carson, Anne
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
Words:169
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