Last night I ran with a silver wolf in north Ontario.
Felt the jolting in my shoulders when we hit the hard packed snow.
Strange to run on four feet, feel moonlight burn my fur,
howl into the whispering pines, then meet Diana and hunt with her.

Diana with the champagne hair and blinding silver eyes,
our lady of the wolves and stags, patient, strong and wise.
Shall we run with the wolves, Diana, like shadows in the night
across an earth of ice and iron in every shade of white?

A savage blinding blizzard erased our forest world
with wind whipped snow like silver daggers that all around us swirled.
Deep within a snow bank I slept away the storm
while at my back a silver wolf curled stong and warm.

Now I shake the snowflakes from my mind, think of bricks and steel.
Try to walk and talk and work and forget how to feel.
The four stong legs, the shining fur, the howling voice, were loans
but on my skin there echoes still a singing from my bones.

Shall we run with the wolves, Diana, shall we run?

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