WOLF KILL
I reckoned the day and found it chill,
A March wind raged from the north,
Raw and cold with a bite to the skin,
The mercury steady at 30 below.
Three feet of snow fell on the ground,
More falling through the fog,
The trackless ground was canvas clean,
Swept by the hand of God.
Our thighs were working overtime,
Warm, the rich blood flowing
Our limbs well tuned and strong and loose,
Hearts high from the strain, and glowing.
The traps were empty and the trail near done,
Our thoughts on home and the hearth,
When a sight on the trail, just a few feet ahead,
Made our snowshoes pause in the storm.
It was only a track, a lone moose track,
But that track was deep and fresh,
As we knelt in the snow to read the tale,
We could sense the urgent stress.
On the branch of a willow were bits of fur
But wait, and I looked a bit closer,
And there in the snow was a lone moose hair,
With one single fresh droplet of blood.
It was like a taste, and that tast not good,
As it rolled o'er my mouth and throat,
Was the taste of fear, and the driving need
Of the the wolves, and their killing stroke.
Now the hill we were on had been burned long ago,
And the growth now was scrubby and stunted,
And it wasn't the best for the tracking of game
When it's hurt, and being confronted.
So, cautious now, we started downhill,
If she's wounded, that's where she's headed,
Not ten feet away in the pit of a knoll,
She'd been down and meanly fretted.
There were bits of fur and bloodied flesh,
- She'd put up a hell of a fight,
You could see she'd been down,
With the wolves gathered round,
But she's up, 'cause the trail led on.
She's staggered and weak and her future looks bleak
I thought, 'less she's already dead,
I could hear in the woods the sound of the wolves
Pad-padding in the snow ahead.
Stealthily now, we took five yards,
Willing our snowshoes to quiet,
Then we peered through the trees and the sight made us freeze,
And what a sad sight it was.
It was in a small clearing she'd finally come down,
She'd been chased till she's weary through,
In the heavy snow falling, we could hear the wolves calling
In the hush, as we got to her grave.
Her hide was still steaming when we got to her side,
But I knew she wouldn't be breathing,
And there in the snow and the fog and the wind,
I was mad and my insides were seething.
She was only a small one - I ventured a guess at her age,
She'd have seen two summers,
I was saddened to think of the spring yet to come,
And the fact that she'd never see three.
She'd laid there one hour, no more I was sure,
Long enough for the wolves to feast,
They'd taken a lot and their bellies were full,
And so gluttoned this beautiful beast.
Now, we got to thinking while looking around,
That we hadn't had meat either,
The whole winter long, (and it had been long!)
So we took just the loins for the freezer.
It was then horror left me at what had been done,
And I sat and I thought for awhile,
All the game had been fed now, and yes, me included,
And I saw, it's just nature to die.
Yes, my living began in '79
When it ends, it'll be too soon,
'Cause that was the year
That I ran my first line,
On the banks of the Bonnet Plume.
~ Drifter~
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